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SOUTHERN 


PASSAGES  AND  PICTURES. 

'  •*•  1   " 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP 


ATALANTIS,"  "THE  YEMASSEE,"  "GUY 
RIVERS,VCARL  WERNER,"  &c. 


NEW  YORK: 
GEORGE  ADLARD,  46  BROADWAY, 


MDCCCXXXIX. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1838,  by 

~W.  GILMORE  SIMMS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CRAIGHEAD  &  ALLEN,  PRINTERS, 
112  Fulton  street. 


So  u. 


TO 

WILLIAM  CULLEN   BRYANT, 

WHOSE  SONG, 
ALWAYS  PURE,   GRACEFUL,  AND  BEAUTIFUL, 

WHILE  IT  RECEIVES  INSPIRATION 

FROM  THE  HIGHEST,   WILL  NOT  DISDAIN 

THE  HOMAGE  OF  THE  HUMBLEST, 

MUSE. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Brook  let,        •*:    ~V* 

1 

Autumn  Twilight,        -        -        -        -  - 

2 

Summer  Night  Wind,           -    .     -        -        -        -7  ' 

4 

The  Young  Mother,      -        -        -        -        -      '  i" 

7 

Moral  Change, 

8 

Mental  Solitude,            %       -     "  '- 

10 

The  Western  Emigrants,       "••*,- 

15 

The  Edge  of  the  Swamp,       -        -"    *  '-" 

18 

Cottage  Life,                          -    *  f  '     *-'  *    -        J*& 

20 

The  Unquiet  Spirit,      «**-'• 

22 

The  Shade  Trees,         -        -        -       '«.-^>     '- 

25 

Hatteras,      -        -   ". 

27 

The  Sick  Child,    -1 

29 

Taming  the  Wild  Horse,      

33 

Night  Watching,        '''£.\    -        -        -        -   *f*9 

35 

Silence,         --..____ 

41 

The  Shipwreck,    

43 

The  Indian  Village,      -        

49 

Repinings,    

53 

The  Inutile  Pursuit,       

54 

Veneration,           ?  . 

-        -          58 

Washington,         

59 

First  Day  of  Spring,    -.-.._ 

60 

viii  CONTENTS.          ^, 

PAGE 

Song  Bird  and  Flower, *  <r      £  61 

Sympathies,          -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -       *»  62 

The  New  Moon,  64 

The  Lost  Voice, 65 

The  Lost  Pleiad,  69 

To  the  Breeze,      .*     &*•'*&• 73 

Flowers  in  Autumn,     -^v    *^     m    -  •*>'      -•"  •    l-"~  -        -  75 

Fall  of  the  Leaf,  77 

Love  Imperial, "     *  V   %  "   **aS  ^° 

True  Love,  82 

The  Slain  Eagle,  83 

Invocation,  - 

Changes  of  Home, 90 

Slumber, *     -,*  92 

The  Eutaw  Maid, -  93 

The  Tryst  of  Acayma,         -        -        -        -        -        -        -  95 

The  Hunter  of  Calawassee,  99 

To  my  Wife  in  Absence,      -     •    -    "'  *•_       -        -        -        -  109 

To  my  Wife  at  Parting,       -                 Ill 

Flight  to  Nature, 112 

Evening  by  the  Sea  Shore,    -         -        -        -        -    %;^^     -  114 

Morning  in  the  Forest, 117 

The  Shaded  Water,               -------  123 

The  Approach  of  the  Pestilence, 126 

A  Last  Prayer,                                                                 -        -  128 

Shadows,      -                 130 

The  Prayer  of  the  Lyre, 134 

The  Deserted  Home,    - 140 

The  Humble  Lot,         -        - 143 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

April,       fc.  -«••"-     *-    *:..  -        -        -        -    '    •     '*-        -  145 

While  the  Silent  Night  goes  by, 155 

To  a  Winter  Flower,            -        -        -  -^>'» ;,    .        .    ,jfe  156 

The  False  and  True,             +.<•> 158 

Hymn  at  Evening,        -        —    -*      *        ,        *        -        -  159 

Song  in  Spring,             -        -        **      4L  •*•      ^        -        '  l61 

To- ,           ^      V;|  ,,#  .  *„     ;<-  162 

A  Lay  in  Winter,         -        -        -        ^     .      '  .        .        .  163 

A  Winter  Lay  in  Spring, 166 

Shepherd's  Hymn, t"   '  «.        _  168 

Oh!  Bid  me  Not, 169 

Still  on  the  Desert,        •*. : .  ^     -  - 169 

Chuckwill's  Widow,    -         -                 *-        -        .        .        .  170 

Decaying  Beauty, 171 

'Tis  a  lowly  Grave,       -        -   •••*  ."*•."    -''      -        -        -  172 

Song  in  May,        -        -        -      "  .        ^        .        .        .        .  173 

The  Story  of  God's  Judgment,      -    *  -  «-j>  ...      ..        .        .  175 

The  Forest  Grave,        -        - •    ' .  ,',  v"**    -        -•"**#.-        -  188 

Love  in  Idleness, 194 

Albert  and  Rosalie,       - 197 

The  Widow  of  the  Chief,     -        ...                 '^        -  225 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

WHILE  these  pages  were  going  through  the 
press,  I  received  intelligence  of  the  painful 
illness  and  death  of  a  dearly  beloved  child. 
This  event  must  plead  with  the  reader  for 
any  inaccuracies  in  the  volume.  He  must 
yield  to  the  father,  that  indulgence,  which 
cannot  so  well  be  demanded  by  the  poet, 


SOUTHERN 


PASSAGES  AND  PICTURES. 


SOUTHERN 

PASSAGES  AND  PICTURES. 


THE   BROOKLET. 

A  LITTLE  farther  on,  there  is  a  brook 

Where  the  breeze  lingers  idly.     The  high  trees 

Have  roofed  it  with  their  crowding  limbs  and  leaves, 

So  that  the  sun  drinks  not  from  its  sweet  fount, 

And  the  shade  cools  it.     You  may  hear  it  now, 

A  low,  faint  beating,  as,  upon  the  leaves 

That  lie  beneath  its  rapids,  it  descends, 

In  a  fine  showery  rain,  that  keeps  one  tune, 

And  'tis  a  sweet  one,  still  of  constancy. 

Beside  its  banks,  thro'  the  whole  live  long  day, 
Ere  yet  I  noted  much  the  speed  of  time, 
And  knew  him  but  in  songs  and  ballad-books, 
Nor  cared  to  know  him  better,  I  have  lain  ; 
With  thought  unchid  by  harsher  din  than  came 
From  the  quick  thrush,  that,  gliding  through  the  copse, 
Hurried  above  me  ;  or  the  timid  fawn 
That  came  down  to  the  brooklet's  edge  to  drink, 
1 


2  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  sauntered  through  its  shade,  cropping  the  grass, 
Even  where  I  lay, — having  a  quiet  mood, 
And  not  disturbing,  while  surveying  mine. 

Thou  smiTst — and  on  thy  lip  a  straying  thought 
Says  I  have  trifled— calls  my  hours  misspent, 
And  looks  a  solemn  warning !     A  true  thought, — 
And  so  my  errant  mood  were  well  rebuked  ! — 
Yet  there  was  pleasant  sadness  that  became 
Meetly  the  gentle  heart  and  pliant  sense, 
In  that  same  idlesse — gazing  on  that  brook 
So  pebbly  and  so  clear, — prattling  away, 
Like  a  young  child,  all  thoughtless,  'till  it  goes 
From  shadow  into  sunlight,  and  is  lost. 


AUTUMN   TWILIGHT. 

THERE  is  a  soft  haze  hanging  on  yon  hill 
Tinged  with  a  purple  light.     How  beautiful, 
And  yet  how  cold  !     'Tis  the  first  robe  put  on 
By  sad  October.     Well  may  he  repine, 
His  dowry  is  decay :  —  decay  though  bright, 
And  desolate,  though  bounteous.     The  sweet  green. 
The  summer  flush  of  love, — the  golden  bloom, 
That  came  with  flow'rs  in  April — all  are  gone. 
The  green  is  pallid  ; — the  warm,  virgin  flush, 
That  was  a  maiden  glory  on  the  cheek 


AND    PICTURES. 

And  in  the  eye  of  summer,  shrinks  away, 
To  gather  on  the  hill-tops ;  — wooing  in  vain, 
The  last  embrace  to  sorrowful  twilight  given, 
By  the  down-vanishing  sun  : — and  the  sweet  airs 
Wail  heavily  through  the  branches,  while  the  leaves, 
Saddest  of  mourners  !  flung  on  summer's  grave, 
Lament  her  in  the  silence  of  tine  grief! 

Ah !  mock  me  not,  that  thus  I  mourn  with  them — 
The  sad  heart's  wisdom  is  to  weep  enough ! 
I  hear  your  lesson,  but  of  what  avail  1  — 
I  may  not  heed  it !     Never  yet  was  grief 
A  fit  philosopher  ;    and  all  your  rules 
Teach  sorrow,  when  you  teach  her  helplessness. 
What  wisdom  is  't  to  tell  me  that  the  year 
Must  have  its  changes — that  all  things  that  live 
Are  things  of  change  —  Death's  sickle  is  put  in 
To  harvest  forms  that  love,  not  less  than  forms 
That  merely  live  ;  —  and  folly  'tis  to  mourn, 
That  the  immortal  spirit  should  descend 
To  not  less  sudden  and  sure  apathy 
Than  the  poor  flowers  we  tread  on  ! 

Happy  he, 

Who  thus  may  prose  o'er  nature,  and  the  life 
So  various,  that  she  scatters  on  our  path. 
For  mine  own  part,  an  orphan  child  was  I, 
That  had  no  parents'  tendance  !   never  mine 
A  sister's  lips  have  hallo w'd  while  they  press'd  ;  — 
No  brother  called  me  his;  —  no  natural  ties 


SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Embraced,  and train'd, and  nourished  me,  in  youth:  — 

And  thus,  with  strong  affections,  I  have  sought, 

Objects  for  worship  in  these  solemn  groves. 

They  gave  me  what  I  sought  —  and  the  pale  flow'rs, 

And  the  green  leaves,  now  yellow,  at  our  feet, 

Were  something  more  to  me  than  leaves  and  flow'rs  : 

They  were  my  kindred  !     Now,  that  they  are  gone, 

I  weep  them  as  a  loss  of  family,  — 

And  tread  among  them  with  a  cautious  foot, 

And  sad,  slow  step,  worn  heart,  and  gloomy  brow, 

As  I  were  'mongst  the  graves  of  brethren  ! 


SUMMER  NIGHT    WIND. 

How  soothingly,  to  close  the  sultry  day, 
Comes  the  soft  breeze  from  off  the  murmuring  waves 
That  break  away  in  music  —  and  I  feel  - 
As  a  new  spirit  were  within  my  veins, 
And  a  new  life  in  nature.     I  awake 
From  the  deep  weight  of  weariness  that  fell 
Heavily  on  my  frame  :  —  a  fresher  life 
Groes  keenly  through  each  limb  and  artery, 
And  a  new  nerve,  a  livelier  sense  and  strength, 
Kindles  my  languid  spirit  into  play. 

Oh,  generous  nature  !     This  is  then  thy  boon  : 
These  airs  that  come  with  evening-^ these  sweet  spells 


AND    PICTURES. 

That  steal  into  the  bosom,  not  to  sting, 
And  speak,  not  idly,  of  their  affluence. 
Let  me  look  forth  and  win  them — let  me  know 
Their  soothing  ministry.     They  come  —  I  feel 
The  odorous  breath  of  evening,  like  a  wing, 
Lifting  the  hair  upon  my  moistened  brows, 
As  if  a  spirit  fanned  me.     Slowly,  at  fits, 
The  wind  ascends  my  lattice,  and  creeps  in, 
And  swells  the  shrinking  drapery  of  my  couch, 
Then  melts  away  around  me.     Now  it  comes 
Again,  and  with  a  perfume  on  its  breath, 
Drank  up  from  spicy  gardens.     The  fair  maid, 
Whose  roses  thus  yield  tribute  to  the  march 
Of  that  wild  rover,  guesses  not  the  thief, 
Whose  fierce  embrace,  at  midnight,  robs  them  thus, 
Leaving  them  drooping,  when  she  comes  at  morn, 
From  their  nocturnal  amours.     Is  it  not 
A  gentle  providence  that  thus  provides 
With  odor  such  as  this,  the  unfavored  one, 
Who  else  had  never  known  it  ?     Pleasant  breeze, 
Misfortune  well  may  love  thee  !     Thou  hast  fled 
The  gayer  regions.     The  high  palaces, 
Fair  groves  and  gardens  of  nice  excellence, 
The  pride  of  power,  the  pomp  of  pageantry, 
That  gild  ambition  and  conceal  its  cares, 
Could  not  detain  thee.     Thou  hast  fled  them  all, 
And  like  some  spirit  of  benignant  make, 
Hast  come  to  cheer  the  lonely.     It  is  meet 
Thy  welcome  should  be  lavish  like  thyself. 
Thou  art  no  flatterer,  and  thou  shouldst  not  creep 
1* 


6  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Through  a  close  lattice  with  but  half  thy  train, 

"When  he  would  gather  all  of  thee,  and  feel 

Thy  energies  around  him.     Sweet,  most  sweet — 

Plaintive  and  sweet — thy  leafy  whispering 

Sends  a  glad  music  to  the  o'erladen  heart, 

Jarr'd  by  long  restlessness,  and  out  of  tone, 

From  the  oppressive  and  distempered  heat 

Of  the  long  day  in  summer.     Sweet  the  sleep 

Thy  presence  brings  me.     The  o'er  troublous  thought, 

That,  like  a  factious  discontent,  wrought  strife, 

And  a  most  wild  commotion  in  the  brain, 

Is  soothed  to  silence,  and  forgets  its  coils ; 

And  the  coy  slumbers  wooed  so  long  in  vain, 

Are  wrapping  me  at  last.     I  will  lie  down 

Beneath  my  window  : .    Thou,  meanwhile,  wilt  come 

And  wave  thy  wings  above  my  throbbing  brows, 

And  put  aside  the  tangles  .of  my  hair 

"With  a  mysterious  kindness.     Then,  at  morn, 

Still  watchful  of  thy  charge,  thy  livelier  breath 

Will  chide  my  slumbers  off,  and  rouse  me  up 

To  life's  renewal— the  cold  carking  cares 

That  gather  with  its  duties  and  its  joys. 

Yet,  even  as  now,  thy  wing  will  corne  again, 

Laden  at  night  with  fairy  comforters, 

From  groves  that  fling  out  their  unheeded  gifts, 

That  they  may  woo  thee  to  the  same  embrace 

Thou  dost  bestow  upon  me  while  I  sleep. 


AND    PICTURES. 


THE  YOUNG   MOTHER. 

THE  wind  blew  wide  the  casement,  and  within  — 
It  was  the  loveliest  picture  !  —  a  fair  child 
Lay  in  its  mother's  arms,  and  drew  its  life 
From  a  half-hid  and  delicate  white  round, 
That  seem'd  an  orb  of  bliss,  and  was  an  orb 
Of  purity.     Its  little  parted  lips, 
And  rounded  cheek,  that  lay  upon  the  breast, 
Even  as  a  young  leaf  of  the  parent  flow'r, 
W^ere  of  one  color — rich,  and  warm,  and  fresh, — 
And  such  alone  are  beautiful.     Its  eye, 
A  full,  blue  gem,  most  exquisitely  set, 
Looked  archly  on  its  world — the  little  imp, 
As  if  it  knew,  even  then,  that  such  a  wealth 
Were  not  for  all ;  —  and  with  its  playful  hands- 
It  drew  aside  the  robe  that  hid  its  realm, 
And  peeped,  and  laugh'd  aloud,  and  so,  it  laid 
Its  head  upon  the  shrine  of  such  pure  joys, 
And  laughing,  slept.     And  while  it  slept,  the  tears 
Of  the  sweet  mother  fell  upon  its  cheek — 
Tears,  such  as  fall  from  April  skies,  and  bring 
The  sunlight  after.     They  were  tears  of  joy  ; 
And  the  true  heart  of  that  young  mother  then 
Grew  lighter,  and  she  sang  unconsciously, 
The  silliest  ballad-song  that  ever  yet 
Subdued  the  nursery's  voices,  and  brought  sleep 
To  fold  her  sabbath  wings  above  its  couch. 


SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 


MORAL   CHANGE. 

DARKNESS  is  gathering  round  me,  but  the  stars, 

Silent  and  unobtrusive,  stealing  out, 

Lend  beauty  to  the  night.     The  air  comes  cool, 

Up,  from  the  fountain ;  and  the  murmuring  breeze, 

Gushing  through  yonder  valley,  has  a  song 

Spelling  the  silence  to  such  mystery 

As  mingles  with  our  dreams.     It  is  the  hour, 

When  sad,  sweet  thoughts  have  sway;— when  memory 

Triumphant  o'er  the  past,  waves  her  green  wand, 

And  bids  the  clouds  roll  back,  and  lifts  the  veil 

That  had  been  closed  behind  us  as  a  wall, — 

And  the  eye  sees,  and  the  heart  feels  and  lives 

Once  more,  in  its  old  feelings.     I  retread 

The  groves  of  past  affections,  and  dear  hopes, 

And  dreams  that  looked  like  hopes,  and  fled  as  well. 

This  is  the  spot — I  know  it  as  of  old 

By  various  tokens,  but  'tis  sadly  changed. — 

Men  look  not  as  they  did  ;  and  flowers  that  grew, 

Nursed  by  some  twin  affections,  grow  alone, 

Pining  for  old  attendance.     Thus,  our  change, 

Brings  a  worse  change  on  nature.     She  will  bloom, 

To  bless  a  kindred  spirit ;  but  she  flies 

The  home  that  yields  no  worship.     She  is  seen 

Through  the  sweet  medium  of  our  sympathies, 

And  has  no  life  beside.     'Tis  in  our  eye 

Alone,  that  she  is  lovely — 'tis  our  thought 

That  makes  her  dear,  as  only  in  our  ears 


AND    PICTURES. 

Lies  the  young  minstrel's  music,  which  were  harsh, 
Did  not  our  mood  yield  up  fit  instrument 
For  his  congenial  fingers. 

It  is  thus, — 

The  beautiful  evening,  the  secluded  vale, 
The  murmuring  breeze,  the  gushing  fountain,  all, 
So  exquisite  in  nature  to  the  sense, 
So  cheering  to  the  spirit — bring  me  nought 
But  shadows  of  a  gloomy  thought  that  rise 
With  the  dusk  memory — with  repeated  tales, 
Censuring  the  erring  heart-hope  with  its  loss  :  — 
Loss  upon  loss — the  dark  defeat  of  all 
The  pleasant  plans  of  boyhood — promises 
That  might  have  grown  in  fairy  land  to  flowers, 
And  were  but  weeds  in  this.     They  did  but  wound, 
Or  cheat  and  vanish  with  deluding  glare  : 
Having  the  aspect  of  some  heavenly  joy, 
They  also  had  its  wings,  and  tired  of  earth, 
Replumed  them  back  for  the  more  natural  clime, 
And  so  were  lost  to  ours.     Hopes  still  wrong 
And  torture,  when  they  grow  extravagant  — 
Youth  is  their  victim  ever,  for  they  grow, 
With  the  advancing  season,  into  foes 
That  wolve  upon  him.     'Tis  a  grief  to  me, 
Though  a  strange  pleasure  still,  thus  to  look  forth, 
Watching,  through  lengthening  hours,  so  sweet  a  scene, 
And  winning  back  old  feelings  as  I  gaze. 
Boyhood  had  drawn  a  picture  fair  like  this 
On  fancy's  vision.     Ancient  oaks  were  there* 
Giving  the  landscape  due  solemnity— < 


10  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

A  quiet  streamlet  trickled  through  a  grove, 
And  the  birds  sang  most  sweetly  in  the  trees — 
But  then,  the  picture  was  not  incomplete, 
Nor  I,  alone,  as  now. 


MENTAL   SOLITUDE. 

THE  bells  are  gayly  pealing,  and  the  crowd, 
The  thoughtless  and  the  happy,  with  light  hearts, 
Are  moving  by  my  casement : — I  can  hear 
The  rude  din  of  their  voices,  and  the  tramp 
Of  hurrying  footsteps  o'er  the  pavement  nigh, 
And  my  soul  sickens  in  its  solitude. 

Each  hath  his  own  companion,  and  can  bend, 
As  to  a  centre  of  enlivening  warmth, 
To  some  abode  of  happiness  and  mirth  ;  — 
Greeted  by  pleasant  voices, — words  of  cheer, 
And  hospitality,  —  whose  outstretched  hand 
Draws  in  the  smiling  stranger  at  the  door. 
They  go  not  singly  by,  as  I  should  go, 
But  hanging  on  fond  arms.     They  muse  not  thoughts 
Of  strange  and  timid  sadness,  such  as  mine  ; 
But  dreams  of  promised  joys  are  in  their  souls, 
And,  in  their  ears,  the  music  of  kind  words 
That  make  them  happy. 


AND    PICTURES.  11 

I,  alas  !  —  alone, 

Of  all  this  populous  city,  must  remain, 
Shut  up  in  my  dim  chamber,  —  or,  perchance, 
If  I  dare  venture  out  among  the  crowd, 
Will  be  among,  not  of,  them  ;  —  and,  appear, — 
For  that  I  have  not  walked  with  them  before, 
Nor  been  a  sharer  in  their  festivals, — 
As  some  strange  monster  brought" from  foreign  climes 
But  to  be  baited  with  the  thoughtless  gaze, 
The  rude  remark,  cold  eye,  and  sneering  lip, 
'Till  I  grow  savage,  and  become,  at  last, 
The  rugged  brute  they  do  behold  in  me. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  solitude  !  —  Thou  hast 
But  little  of  its  meaning  in  thy  thought, 
And  less  in  thy  observance.     It  is  not 
To  go  abroad  into  the  wilderness, 
Or  dart  upon  the  ocean  ;  —  to  behold 
The  broad  expanse  of  prairie  or  of  wood, 
And  deem, — for  that  the  human  form  is  not 
A  dweller  on  its  bosom,  —  (with  its  shrill 
And  senseless  clamor  oft,  breaking  away 
The  melancholy  of  its  sweet  serene, 
That,  like  a  mantle,  lifted  by  the  breath 
Of  some  presiding  deity,  o'erwraps, 
Making  all  mystery  and  gentleness,)  — 
That  solitude  is  thine.     Thy  thought  is  vain  !  — 
That  is  no  desert,  where  the  heart  is  free 
To  its  own  spirit-worship  ; — where  the  soul, 
Untainted  by  the  breath  of  busy  life, 


12  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Converses  with  the  elements,  and  grows 

To  a  familiar  notion  of  the  skies, 

Which  are  its  portion.     That  is  liberty ! 

And  the  sweet  quiet  of  the  waving  woods, 

The  solemn  song  of  ocean  —  the  blue  skies, 

That  hang  like  canopies  above  the  plain. 

And  lend  their  richest  hues  to  the  fresh  flow'rs 

That  carpet  its  broad  bosom,  —  are  most  full 

Of  solace  and  the  sweetest  company  ! 

I  love  these  teeming  worlds,  —  their  voiceless  words, 

So  full  of  truest  teaching.     God  is  there, 

Walking  beside  me,  as,  in  elder  times, 

He  walked  beside  the  shepherds,  and  gave  ear 

To  the  first  whispered  doubts  of  early  thought, 

And  prompted  it  aright.     Such  wilds  to  me 

Seem  full  of  friends  and  teachers.     In  the  trees, 

The  never-ceasing  billows,  winds  and  leaves, 

Feathered  and  finny  tribes,  —  all  that  I  see, 

All  that  I  hear  and  fancy,  —  I  have  friends, 

That  soothe  my  heart  to  meekness,  lift  my  soul 

To  loftiest  hope,  and,  to  my  toiling  mind, 

Impart  just  thoughts  and  safest  principles. 

They  have  a  language  I  can  understand, 

Wlien  man  is  voiceless,  or  with  vexing  words 

Offends  my  judgment.     They  have  melodies 

That  soothe  my  heart  to  peace,  even  as  the  dame 

Soothes  her  young  infant  with  a  song  of  sounds 

That  have  no  meaning  for  the  older  ear, 

And  mock  the  seeming  wise.     Even  wint'ry  clouds 

Have  charms  for  me  amid  their  cheerlessness, 


AND    PICTURES!.  13 

And  hang  out  images  of  love  and  light, 
At  evening,  'mong  the  stars,  —  or,  ere  the  dark 
That  specks  so  stilly  the  gray  twilight's  wing, 
With  many  colors  sweetly  intermixt :  — 
And  when  the  breezes  gather  with  the  night, 
And  shake  the  roof-tree  under  which  I  sleep, 
'Till  the  dried  leaves  enshroud  me,  then  I  hear 
Voices  of  love  and  friendship  in  mine  ear, 
That  speak  to  me  in  soothing,  idle  sounds, 
And  flatter  me,  I  am  not  all  alone. 

Darting  o'er  ocean's  blue  domain,  or  far 
In  the  deep  woods,  where  the  gaunt  Choctaw  yet 
Lingers  to  perish;  —  galloping  o'er  the  bald 
Yet  beautiful  plain  of  prairie, —  I  become 
Part  of  the  world  around  me,  and  my  heart 
Forgets  its  singleness  and  solitude. 
But,  in  the  city's  crowd,  where  I  am  one 
'Mongst  many,  —  many  who  delight  to  throw 
The  altar  I  have  worshipped  in  the  clust, 
And  trample  my  best  offerings,  and  revile 
My  prayers,  and  scorn  the  tribute,  which  I  still 
Devoted  with  full  heart  and  purest  mind 
To  the  all -wooing  and  all- visible  God, 
In  nature  ever  present  - —  having  no  mood 
With  mine,  nor  any  sympathy  with  aught 
That  I  have  loved ;  —  'tis  there  that  I  am  taught 
The  essence  and  the  form  of  solitude  — 
'Tis  there  that  I  am  lonely  !  —  'mid  a  world, 
To  feel  I  have  no  business  in  that  world  ; 
And  when  I  hear  men  laughing,  not  to  join, 
2 


14  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Because  their  cause  of  mirth  is  hid  from  me  :  — 
To  feel  the  lights  of  the  assembly  glare 
And  fever  all  my  senses,  till  I  grow 
Stupid,  or  sad,  and  boorish;  —  then  return, 
Sick  of  false  joys  and  misnamed  festivals, 
To  my  own  gloomy  chambers,  and  old  books 
That  counsel  me  no  more,  and  cease  to  cheer, 
And,  like  an  aged  dotard,  with  dull  truths, 
Significant  of  nothings,  often  told, 
And  told  to  be  denied,  that  wear  me  out, 
In  patience,  as  in  peace ;  —  and  then  to  lie, 
And  watch  the  lazy-footed  night  away, 
With  fretful  nerve,  that  sorrows  when  it  flies!  — 
To  feel  the  day  advancing  which  must  bring 
The  weary  night  once  more,  that  I  had  prayed 
Forever  gone  !     To  hear  the  laboring  wind, 
Depart,  in  melting  murmurs,  with  the  tide, 
And,  ere  the  morn,  to  catch  his  sullen  roar, 
Mocking  the  ear,  with  watching  overdone, 
Returning  from  his  rough  lair  on  the  seas  ! 

If  life  be  now  denied  me  ; — if  I  sit 
Within  my  chamber  when  all  other  men 
Are  revelling  ; — if  I  must  be  alone, 
Musing  on  idle  minstrelsy  and  lore  — 
Weaving  sad  fancies  with  the  fleeting  hours, 
And  making  fetters  of  the  folding  thoughts, 
That  crush  into  my  heart,  and  canker  there  ;  — 
If  nature  calls  me  to  her  company, 
Takes  up  my  time,  teaches  me  legends  strange, 
Prattles  of  wild  conceits  that  have  no  form, 


AND    PICTURES.  15 

Save  in  extravagant  fancy  of  old  years, 

When  spirits  were  abroad  ; — -if  still  she  leads 

My  steps  away  from  the  established  walks, 

And,  with  seducing  strains  of  syren  song, 

Beguiles  my  spirit  far  among  the  groves 

Of  fairy-trodden  forests,  that  I  may 

Wrestle  with  dreams  that  wear  away  my  days, 

And  make  my  nights  a  peopled  realm  which  steals 

Sleep  from  my  eyes,  and  peace; — if  she  ordains 

That  I  shall  win  no  human  blandishment, 

Nor,  in  the  present  hour,  as  other  men, 

Find  meet  advantage  :  —  she  will  sure  provide, 

Just  recompense  —  a  better  sphere  and  life, 

Atoning  for  the  past,  and  full  of  hope 

In  a  long  future,  or  she  treats  me  now, 

Unkindly,  and  I  may  not  help  complaint. 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANTS. 

AN  aged  man,  whose  head  some  seventy  years 
Had  snow'd  on  freely,  led  the  caravan ;  — 
His  sons  and  sons'  sons,  and  their  families, 
Tall  youths  and  sunny  maidens  —  a  glad  group, 
That  glowed  in  generous  blood,  and  had  no  care, 
And  little  thought  of  the  future  —  followed  him  ;  — 
Some  perch'd  on  gallant  steeds,  others,  more  slow, 


16  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

The  infants  and  the  matrons  of  the  floek, 
In  coach  and  jersey, — but  all  moving  on 
To  the  new  land  of  promise,  full  of  dreams 
Of  western  riches,  Mississippi-mad ! 
Then  came  the  katids,  some  forty-five  or  more, 
Their  moderate  wealth  united — some  in  carts 
Laden  with  mattresses  ;  —  on  ponies  some  ; 
Others,  more  sturdy,  following  close  a-foot, 
Chattering  like  jays,  and  keeping,  as  they  went, 
Good  time  to  Juba's  creaking  violin. 

I  met  and  spoke  them.     The  old  patriarch, 
The  grandsire  of  that  goodly  family, 
Told  me  his  story,  and  a  few  brief  words. 
Unfolded  that  of  thousands.     Discontent, 
With  a  vague  yearning  for  a  better  clime, 
And  richer  fields  than  thine,  old  Carolina,, 
Led  him  to  roam.     Yet  did  he  not  complain 
Of  thee,  dear  mother — mother  still  to  me, 
Though  now,  like  him,  a  wanderer  from  thy  homes. 
Thou  had'st  not  chided  him,  nor  trampled  down 
His  pride  nor  his  ambition.     He  knew  thee  not, 
As  I,  by  graves  and  sorrows.     Thy  bright  sun 
Had  always  yielded  flowers  and  fruits  to  him, 
And  thy  indulgence  and  continued  smiles 
Had  made  his  pittance,  plenty.     Yet  he  flies 
To  a  wild  region,  where  the  unploughed  fields 
Are  stagnant  with  their  waste  fertility, 
And  long  for  labor.     His  were  sparkling  dreams, 
As  fond  as  those  of  boyhood.     Golden  stores 


AND    PICTURES.  17 

They  promised  him  in  Mississippian  vales, 

Outshining  all  the  past,  atoning  well  — 

So  thought  he  idly — for  the  home  he  leaves, 

The  grave  he  should  have  chosen,  and  the  walks, 

And  well  known  fitness  of  his  ancient  woods. 

Self-exiled,  in  his  age  he  hath  gone  forth 

To  the  abodes  of  strangers,  —  seeking  wealth  — 

Not  wealth  but  money !     Heavens  1  what  wealth  we  give, 

Daily,  for  money  !     What  affections  sweet — 

What  dear  abodes  —  what  blessing,  happy  joys  — 

What  hopes,  what  hearts,  what  affluence,  what  ties, 

In  a  mad  barter  where  we  lose  our  all, 

For  that  which  an  old  trunk,  a  few  feet  square, 

May  compass  like  our  coffin  !     That  old  man 

Can  take  no  root  again  !     He  has  snapped  off 

The  ancient  tendrils,  and  in  foreign  clay 

His  branches  will  all  wither.     Yet  he  goes, 

Falsely  persuaded  that  a  bloated  purse 

Is  an  affection — is  a  life  —  a  lease, 

Renewing  life,  with  all  its  thousand  ties, 

Of  exquisite  endearment  —  flowery  twines, 

That,  like  the  purple  parasites  of  March, 

Shall  wrap  his  aged  trunk,  and  beautify, 

Even  while  they  shelter.     I  could  weep  for  him, 

Thus  banished  by  that  madness  of  the  heart, 

But  that  mine  own  fate,  not  like  his,  self-chosen, 

Is  not  less  desolate,  and  to  me  more  dread. 

There  is  an  exile.     'Tis  not  when  one  goes 
To  dwell  in  other  regions  —  from  his  home 

2* 


18  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Removed  by  the  deep  waters.     Change  of  place 

Is  seldom  exile.     Thus  it  has  been  called, 

But  vainly.     There  's  another  banishment, 

To  which  such  fate  were  gentle.     'Tis  to  be 

An  exile  on  the  spot  where  you  were  born  ;  — 

A  stranger  on  the  hearth  which  saw  your  youth, — 

Banish'd  from  hearts  to  which  your  heart  is  turn'd; — 

Unbless'd  by  those,  from  whose  o'er- watchful  love, 

Your  heart  would  drink  all  blessings  :  —  'Tis  to  be, 

In  your  own  land  —  the  native  land  whose  soil 

First  gave  you  birth ;  whose  air  still  nourishes, — 

If  that  may  nourish  which  denies  all  care 

And  ev'ry  sympathy  ;  —  and  whose  breast  sustains, — 

A  stranger — hopeless  of  the  faded  hours, 

And  reckless  of  the  future-;  —  a  lone  tree 

To  which  no  tendril  clings — whose  desolate  boughs 

Are  scathed  by  angry  winters,  and  bereft 

Of  the  green  leaves  that  cherish  and  adorn. 


THE   EDGE  OF  THE  SWAMP. 

'Tis  a  wild  spot  and  hath  a  gloomy  look ; 

The  bird  sings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 

And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.     A  rank  growth 

Spreads  poisonously  round,  with  pow'r  to  taint, 

With  blistering  dews,  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dares 


AND    PICTURES. 

To  penetrate  the  covert.     Cypresses 

Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth;  and,  stretched  at  length, 

The  cayman  —  a  fit  dweller  in  such  home  — 

Slumbers,  half-buried  in  the  sedgy  grass, 

Beside  the  green  ooze  where  he  shelters  him. 

A  whooping  crane  erects  his  skeleton  form, 

And  shrieks  in  flight.     Two  summer  ducks  aroused 

To  apprehension,  as  they  hear  his  cry, 

Dash  up  from  the  lagoon,  with  marvellous  haste, 

Following  his  guidance.     Meetly  taught  by  these, 

And  startled  at  our  rapid,  near  approach, 

The  steel -jawed  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 

Crawls  slowly  to  his  slimy,  green  abode, 

Which  straight  receives  him.     You  behold  him  now, 

His  ridgy  back  uprising  as  he  speeds-, 

In  silence,  to  the  centre  of  the  stream, 

Whence  his  head  peers  alone.     A  butterfly, 

That,  travelling  all  the  day,  has  counted  climes 

Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  awhile, 

Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.     The  surly  mute 

Straightway  goes  down,  so  suddenly,  that  he, 

The  dandy  of  the  summer  flow'rs  and  woods, 

Dips  his  light  wings,  and  spoils  his  golden  coat, 

With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  pond. 

Wondering  and  vex'd,  the  plumed  citizen 

Flies,  with  an  hurried  effort,  to  the  shore,1 

Seeking  his  kindred  flow'rs  : — but  seeks  in  vain  — 

Nothing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  seen, 

Nothing  of  beautiful!     Wild,  ragged  trees, 

That  look  like  felon  spectres — fetid  shrubs, 


20  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

That  taint  the  gloomy  atmosphere — dusk  shades, 
That  gather,  half  a  cloud,  and  half  a  fiend 
In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  swamp's  wild  edge,  — 
Gloom  with  their  sternness  and  forbidding  frowns 
The  general  prospect.     The  sad  butterfly, 
Waving  his  lacker'd  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 
And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  us  to  speed, 
For  better  lodgings,  and  a  scene  more  sweet, 
Than  these  drear  borders  offer  us  to-night. 


COTTAGE   LIFE. 

IT  is  a  quiet  picture  of  delight, 
This  humble  cottage,  hiding  from  the  sun, 
In  the  thick  woods.     We  see  it  not  'till  now, 
When  at  its  porch.     Rudely,  but  neatly  wrought, 
Four  columns  make  its  entrance  —  slender  shafts  — 
The  rough  bark  yet  upon  them,  as  they  came 
From  the  old  forest  and  dame  Nature's  hand, 
Who  did  not  grudge  her  gift.     Prolific  vines 
Have  wreathed  them  well,  and  half  obscured  the  rind, 
Unpromising,  that  wraps  them.  —  Crowding  leaves 
Of  glistening  green,  and  clustering  bright  flowers, 
Of  purple,  in  whose  cups  throughout  the  day 
The  humming  bird  wantons  boldly,  wave  around, 
And  woo  the  gentle  eye  and  delicate  touch. 


AND    PICTURES.  21 

This  is  the  dwelling,  and  it  is  to  me 
Quiet's  especial  temple.     No  rude  sound 
Breaks  in  upon  time's  ancient  ordering, 
Save  the  occasional  mill  clack,  and  the  hum 
From  yonder  bee  tree  —  the  still  busy  tribe, 
Lightening  their  labors  with  a  song  of  thrift, 
Harmonious  with  the  good  wife's  spinning  wheel. 

I  know  not  what  may  move  me  to  the  thought,. 
But  I  do  think,  that  life  might  glide  away, 
Nor  feel  itself  at  parting —  cloistered  here 
In  calm  seclusion  from  the  bustling  world  „ 
Untroubled  by  the  doubt  and  the  despair, 
The  intrusion,  and  the  coil  of  crowded  life  ;  — 
Soothed,  when  the  erring  pulses  do  beat  high, 
With  the  sweet  catches  of  the  vagrant  birds, 
That,  perching  on  your  eaves,  win  you  away 
Into  the  stillness  of  more  gentle  thoughts. 

The  woods  at  morn  have  life — the  winds  at  eve, 
Play,  whispering  at  the  shutter — stealing  in, 
To  counsel  slumber — waving  o'er  your  couch 
Their  leafy  winglets,  strewing  the  blossoming  airs 
"Won  from  the  forests  they  have  all  day  swept  ! 
The  skies  — I  know  not  why,  but,  in  the  vale, 
Secluded  thus,  and  o'er  our  cottage  roof--- 
Wear  a  perpetual  face  of  gentleness, 
Smiling  in  sunshine  —  and  when  clouds  are  there, 
They  come  as  seasonable  friends  to  bring 
The  unobserved  showers,  that  freshen  all, 


22  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Yield  life  and  verdure  to  the  drooping  plants, 
And  bid  the  young  and  shrinking  flowers  rejoice. 

The  hills  are  natural  tombs,  and  we  shall  sink 
Quietly,  in  their  bosoms,  at  the  last, 
Nor  leave  our  homes  less  peaceful.     The  soft  hands 
Of  the  twin-sister  seasons,  shall  unite 
To  bend  the  green  shrubs  o'er  our  graves  in  turn  — 
And  then  we  know  that  spring  will  bring  her  flowers, 
And,  like  a  maiden  who  thus  mourns  her  love, 
Plant  them  above  our  silent  resting  place. 


THE  UNdUIET  SPIRIT. 

MIDNIGHT!  —  and  I  am  watching  with  the  stars  — 
Can  ye  not  let  me  slumber  for  awhile, 
Ye  roving  thoughts  —  and  thou,  unquiet  mood, 
Still  active,  wandering  through  infinity, 
All  times  and  nations,  changes,  destinies, 
With  sleepless  soul,  and  discontented  gaze, 
Finding  no  place  of  rest  ?     Can  ye  not  spare, 
To  the  o'er-wearied  votary,  one  pause 
From  the  sad  spirit's  vigil  ]     Must  he  still, 
Climb  the  precipitous  height,  and  with  no  guide 
Save  the  fond  watchers,  twinkling  in  the  heavens, 
And  the  stern  instinct,  into  which  resolved, 


AND    PICTURES.  23 

Ye  do  compel  the  labor,  hurry  him  on, 
Weary,  and  with  no  recompense,  to  gain 
The  solitary  chaplet  of  sad  flow'rs, 
But  little  valued,  which  a  stranger  hand,  — 
When  I  am  dead,  and  those  who  knew  me  once 
Miss  me  no  longer  from  the  crowded  way, — 
Will  place,  perchance,  upon  my  humble  grave  ? 

This  is  the  trophy,  and  for  this  I  toil !  — 
Yet  am  I  proud  among  my  fellow  men, 
And  strive  with  him  whose  aim  is  greatly  bent 
For  the  sole  column  ;  —  and  with  marvellous  dread 
Shrink  from  each  middle  perch  of  eminence. 
And,  in  my  chamber,  when  the  world  is  still, 
And  those  who  were  most  ready  in  the  strife, 
Have  sunk  to  sweet  repose,  —  wakeful,  I  ask, 
Does  my  ambition,  then,  but  strive  for  this 
Poor  honor,  —  which  no  present  hand  bestows, 
And  the  far  future,  like  some  tardy  steed, 
Brings,  when  too  late,  and  only  brings  in  vain  ? 
And  is  it  such  poor  victory,  which  now 
Keeps  me  from  slumber  —  makes  the  violent  pulse, 
And  the  full  veins  upon  my  forehead,  swell 
With  aimless  tumult,  while  the  unsettled  heart, 
Now  bounding  with  keen  hope,  desponding  now, 
Yearns  for  some  other  state,  some  wider  range 
For  action,  and  some  truer  sympathy  1 
Is  it  for  this,  I  ask,  ye  gentler  sprights 
Which  tend  upon  the  discontented  soul, 
That  the  still  night,  with  its  sad,  twiring  stars, 


£4  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Still  rises  on  my  gaze,  while  all  beside 

Are,  in  the  dwellings  of  sweet  dreams,  at  rest ; 

And  even  the  bird  that,  pendant  from  my  roof, 

Murmur'd,  erewhile,  at  intervals,  his  song 

In  wand'ring  catches,  wild,  and  more  than  sweet, 

Has  sought  his  cover  in  the  mazy  wood. 

My  spirit  and  my  reason  are  not  one, 
They  do  rebuke  each  other.     With  the  one 
The  world  is  full  of  glowing  images, 
And  life  abounds  in  honors,  and  strong  hearts 
Bend  to  the  lofty  sway,  and  gentle  eyes 
Look  forth  a  pure  encouragement,  more  dear, 
And  it  may  be,  though  not  so  thought  by  men, 
More  full  of  worth  and  value  than  the  rest. 
'Tis  thus  that  fancy,  ever  won  with  dreams, 
Portrays  its  triumphs— until  reason  comes, 
And  with  stern  accents  and  unbending  brow, 
Experience  at  her  side,  proclaims  them  all 
Shallow  and  profitless  — things  far  beneath 
The  sober  and  strong  estimate  of  sense. 

I  fear  me  she  is  true.     I  have  not  lived, 
Untaught  by  my  own  being,  and  the  toil, 
The  battle  for  existence.     Yet,  I  feel 
There  is  a  triumph  beyond  reason's  scope, 
And  out  of  her  domain.     The  spirit  feels 
Its  urgent  nature,  which,  though  dash'd  with  care, 
Is  still  a  medicine  that  "  physics  pain"  — 
A  golden  draught,  more  potent  than  of  old 


AND    PICTURES.  25 

The  alchemists,  through  years  of  toil  pursued, 
Wearing  out  life,  in  idle  search  of  that 
Which  should  preserve  it.     If  I  must  look  forth, 
Watching  yon  sad  but  lustrous  galaxy, 
Counting  their  many  and  divided  lights, 
Despatching  thought  on  missions  unto  them, 
And  lingering  for  response,  —  I  shall  not  fear, 
Thus,  in  the  eye  of  heaven,  to  urge  my  claim, 
To  those  same  thick  sown  fields  of  glorious  life, 
My  heritage  —  on  which  my  spirit  turns, 
With  a  most  natural  instinct,  which  approves 
Its  right,  and  justifies  its  high  demand — 
Our  future  dwelling  place,  to  which,  my  soul, 
Like  one  unjustly  disinherited, 
Still  looks,  though  vain,  and  cannot  cease  to  look. 

-:••!  J*k/:  «.?<A 


THE  SHADE  TREES. 

GOD  bless  the  hand  that  planted  these  old  trees, 
Here,  by  the  wayside.     While  the  August  sun, 
Sends  down  his  brazen  arrows  on  the  plain, 
They  give  us  shelter.     Panting  in  their  shade, 
We  gaze  upon  the  path  o'er  which  we  came, 
And,  in  the  green  leaves  overhead,  rejoice ! 
Far  as  the  eye  may  reach,  the  sands  spread  out 
A  granulated  blaze,  pain  the  dim  sense, 
3 


26  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  vex  the  slumberous  spirit,  with  their  glare. 
Like  some  o'erpolished  mirror,  they  give  back 
The  sun's  intenser  fires.     The  green  snake  writhes 
To  run  along  the  track — the  lizard  creeps, 
Carefully  tender,  o'er  the  wither'd  leaves, 
And  shuns  the  wayside,  which,  in  early  spring, 
He  travelled  only  ; — while,  on  the  moist  track, 
WTiere  ran  a  small  brook  out,  a  shining  group 
Of  butterflies,  fold  up  their  wearied  wings, 
Mottled  with  gold  and  purple,  and  cling  close 
To  the  dank  surface,  drawing  the  coolness  thence 
Which  the  gray  sands  deny.     A  thousand  forms, — 
Insect  and  fly,  and  the  capricious  bird, 
Erewhile,  that  sang  so  gayly  in  the  spring 
To  his  just  wedded  partner, — forms  of  life, 
And  most  irregular  impulse, — all  seem  press'd, 
As  by  the  approach  of  death ;  and  in  the  shade, 
Hiding  in  leafy  coverts  and  dense  groves, 
Where  pines  make  natural  temples  foi  fond  hearts, 
And  hopeless  mourners, — seem  in  dread  to  wait 
Some  shock  of  nature.     Summer  reigns  supreme, 
With  power  like  that  of  death ;  and  here,  beneath 
This  most  refreshing  shelter  of  old  trees, 
I  hear  a  murmuring  voice  from  out  the  ground, 
Where  work  her  agents  ;  like  the  busy  hum 
From  out  the  shops  of  labor,  or,  from  far, 
The  excited  beating  of  an  army's  pulse, 
Mix'd  in  some  solemn  service. 

'Twas  a  thought, 
Of  good,  becoming  ancient  patriarchs, 


AND    PICTURES.  27 

Of  him  who  first,  in  the  denying  earth, 

Planted  these  oaks.     Heaven,  for  the  kindly  deed, 

Look  on  his  errors  kindly  !     He  hath,  had 

A  most  benevolent  thought  to  serve  his  kind, 

And  felt,  in  truth,  that  principle  of  love, 

For  the  wide,  various  family  of  man, 

Which  is  the  true  religion.     Happy,  for  mankind, 

"Were  such  the  toil  of  most  who  clamor  much, 

And  mouth  in  sacred  texts, — vexing  the  heart 

With  disputation.     Better  far  to  seek 

The  distant  wayside,  and  with  kindly  hand, 

Sink  deep  the  shade-tree's  roots,  whose  friendly  leaves 

The  pilgrim  blesses,  while  he  blesses  them  ! 


HATTERAS. 

"  BY  these  soft  breezes — by  the  odorous  breath 
From  groves  of  pine — I  know  that  we  have  past 
The  stormy  cape  !"     Exclaiming  thus,  I  leapt, 
From  the  close  cabin  to  the  deck,  with  speed, 
And  there,  —  his  wrath  subdued,  his  ire  at  rest — 
Lay  the  fierce  god  of  cloudy  Hatteras, 
At  length,  along  the  deep.     Our  vessel  ran 
Beside  him,  fearless ;  and  the  forms  that  oft 
Had  trembled  at  the  story  of  his  storms 
Look'd  on  him  without  dread.     Yet,  in  his  sleep, 


28  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

The  sun  down-blazing  on  his  old  gray  head, 

There  was  a  moody  murmur  of  his  waves, 

That  spoke  of  ruthless  powers,  and  bade  us  fly 

To  our  far  homes,  with  wings  of  moving  fear, 

Not  less  than  hope.     We  might  not  loiter  long1, 

Like  thoughtless  birds,  improvident  of  home, 

And  wand'ring,  by  the  sunlight  still  seduced, 

O'er  treacherous  billows.     No  half  despot  he, 

To  spare  in  mercy  in  his  wrathful  hour. 

A  thousand  miles,  along  his  sandy  couch, 

The  shores  shall  feel  his  wakening,  and  his  lash 

Resound  in  thunder.     Brooding  by  the  sea, 

He  lurks  in  waiting  for  the  pressing  bark, 

And  every  year  hath  its  own  chronicle 

Of  his  exactions.     Cruel  is  the  tale, 

Of  the  poor  maiden  shrieking  in  despair, 

Grasped  in  his  rude  embrace,  and  perishing, 

Ere  yet  she  lived.     Yet  love  survives  his  wrath, 

And  in  the  night  of  terror  and  of  storm, 

When  his  fierce  winds  were  howling,  —  when  the  ship 

W^s  sinking  'neath  them  —  a  fond  voice  was  heard, — 

A  husband — by  the  billows  torn  away, — 

That  called  upon  the  woman  who  had  lain 

Upon  his  bosom  —  "Where  art  thou,  my  wife  ?"  — 

And  then  the  voice  grew  silent — the  rude  waves 

Stifled  the  speech  ;  yet  not  before  the  wife 

Made  answer  to  his  ears,  —  a  sweet  response, 

That  waken'd  them  in  death,  —  "  I  come  to  thee  — 

I  come  to  thee,  dear  husband — where  art  thou  ?" 


AND    PICTURES.  29 

She  sprang  to  join  him,  and  the  swollen  seas 
Closed  over  them  in  death.     It  is  my  prayer, 
That,  ere  he  perished,  she  had  wound  her  arms 
About  him,  and  had  pressed  her  lip  to  his  :  — 
And  it  were  fitting  that,  beneath  the  waves, 
They  sleep,  encircled  in  the  same  embrace  — 
Her  cheek  upon  his  bosom,  and  his  arm 
Wrapped  round  her  in  the  holy  grasp  of  love, 
Secure  from  storm,  and,  best  assurance  yet, 
Secure  from  separation  evermore. 


THE   SICK  CHILD. 

I  HAD  been,  many  nights,  a  watcher,  nigh 
The  bed  of  one  I  loved.     Sickness  had  come, 
And  laid  a  heavy  hand  upon  her  form ; 
And,  for  the  delicate  tints  of  her  fair  cheek, 
Most  like  a  leaf  in  softness,  had  bestowed 
An  ashy  shade  like  death.     "  And  she  must  die  !" 
Said  those  who-  stood  beside  her ;  but  my  heart 
Chafed  at  the  dire  decree,  though  filled  with  fears, 
And  said  unto  itself,  "  She  must  not  die  !" 
Yet,  while  it  spoke  thus  confident,  mine  eyes 
Swam  in  their  tears,  — a  coldness  at  my  heart, 
Clung,  heavy  with  ill-omens.     Skill,  in  vain, 
Seemed  to  administer,  and  kindness  spoke, 
3* 


30  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

No  longer,  in  the  soothing  tones  of  hope, 
Beguiling  grief  with  comfort.     Still  we  gave 
The  hourly  medicine,  though  some  that  came, 
Reproach'd  us  for  the  toil,  which  carried  pain, 

And  promised  to  the  sufferer  no  relief. 

.  •  ^ 

The  mother  of  the  infant  drew  not  nigh, 

But,  in  a  corner  of  the  room  apart, 

She  sat,  and  leaned  her  head  against  the  wall ; 

And  said  no  word,  and  ask'd  for  no  report, 

And  dreamed,  and  dreaded,  what  we  dared  not  say  ! 

But,  ever  and  anon,  her  eyes  would  turn, 

Without  an  impulse,  on  the  unmeaning  face 

Of  that  young  child ;  and  with  as  dull  a  gaze 

Out-stared  the  malady  that  preyed  on  life, 

Too  lovely  for  low  earth,  and  yet  too  frail 

For  its  endurance.     Gazing  thus,  as  if 

Her  soul  had  shrunk  to  marble,  there  was  speech, 

Yet,  in  her  sorrows.     Slowly  in  her  eyes, 

Gathered  big  tears,  that  froze  upon  the  cheek, 

Where  no  one  hope  had  refuge.     It  was  well 

She  had  no  farther  action  in  her  grief, 

Else  had  the  infant  perish'd.     She  was  wild, 

Wild  with  the  dread  of  that  impending  wo, 

Already  felt  in  fear.     Madness,  that  brings 

Blessed  oblivion  of  o'erwhelming  truth, 

Had  been  to  her  a  boon — had  saved  her  all 

That  death  of  apprehension,  which,  of  all, 

Is  the  worst  form  of  death.     Yet,  though  shut  out, 

As  by  a  veil,  all  knowledge,  all  design, 


AND    PICTURES.  31 

Life,  action,  hope  —  all  capability 

To  succor,  where  she  ever  prayed  to  save  — 

Still  the  one  dreadful  agony,  untouched, 

Grew  to  a  double  in  her  soul,  and  took 

Acuter  form  and  feeling  from  the  rest, 

In  their  suspension.     Nothing  did  she  know, 

Nothing  she  saw,  nought  felt,  but  that  one  grief!  — 

And  while  she  nothing  asked,  nor  cared  to  know, 

And  her  words  wanted  all  intelligence 

Of  the  calm  reason  and  deliberate  rule, 

Her  anguish,  far  too  strong  for  idle  speech, 

Or  a  more  idle  show,  swelled  in  her  heart, 

And  choked  her  utterance,  and  left  her  dumb  !  — 

Speaking,  when  heard,  in  faint  and  broken  sounds 

Unsyllabled  in  language.     Had  the  death 

Stood  up,  and  bade  her  save  the  babe  .by  speech, 

She  had  not  spoken  !     Vainly  had  she  striven 

To  give  the  nourishing  draught  to  the  poor  child, 

She  had  been  glad  to  die  for. 

There  it  lay  !  — 

Affection's  idol, — now  disease's  toy; 
And  many  were  the  watching  friends  that  came 
To  shorten  the  long  night,  and  cheer  it  on. 
The  infant  was  beloved  ;  —  and  I  have  seen, 
When  she  was  yet  in  bloom,  and  ere  disease 
Had  blighted  the  sweet  promise  of  her  cheek, 
Fond  strangers  press  it  as  they  pass'd  her  by — 
And  parents,  gray  with  years,  have  linger'd  oft 
To  note  in  her  some  well-known  lineaments 


32  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Of  a  beloved  one,  cut  away  in  youth, 

That  was  a  blessing,  bright  and  beautiful, 

Like  her,  and  with  a  glory  of  the  spring, 

Mocking  all  blight  of  time ;  and  then  they  gave 

A  tribute  to  her  beauty,  in  the  tear 

They  shed  for  the  beloved  one  which  was  lost. 

How  could  they  else  than  deem  her  bright  and  fair, 

With  eyes  of  such  pure  light,  with  such  long  hair 

Shading  the  morning  freshness  of  her  cheek, 

As  the  bright  leaves  the  crystal  brook  that^ings 

Wlien  the  sun  glows  in  April — golden  hair 

In  infantine  luxuriance,  streaming  down 

Her  smooth  and  snowy  shoulders. 

She  had  grown 

Beneath  mine  eye,  and  it  had  been  my  task 
To  portion  out  her  labors ;  and  each  day, 
When  from  my  toils  I  came,  'twas  she  who  still, 
First,  at  the  entrance  met  me,  prattling  out 
Her  baby  lessons,  as  at  conquests  made 
Over  new  realms  and  subjects  —  and,  as  now, 
She  lay  before  me  —  to  our  anxious  eyes 
The  victim  of  the  pestilence,  that  like 
Some  fierce  and  flaming  despot,  struck  at  all, 
The  old  and  young  alike,  and  struck  not  twice  :  — 
With  a  stern  mood,  my  heart  its  reckoning  made, 
Summed  up  the  vast  of  its  expected  loss, 
And,  for  the  first  time,  shrunk  in  grief  to  know 
How  deeply  it  had  cherish'd  her.     And  now 
That  she  lay  sick,  how  did  I  look  in  vain 


AND    PICTURES.  33 

For  all  her  idle  prattle,  which  had  grown — 
So  slight  the  source  of  human  happiness,  — 
To  a  familiar  union  with  my  want, 
Which  reft  of,  I  was  lonely  ;  —  and  I  pray'd 
That  God  might  spare  the  little  innocent, 
To  bless  us  with  its  laughter  ;  —  and  he  did  ! 


TAMING  THE  WILD  HORSE. 

LAST  night  he  trampled  with  a  thousand  steeds 
The  trembling  desert.     Now,  he  stands  alone  — 
His  speed  hath  baffled  theirs.     His  fellows  lurk, 
Behind,  on  heavy  sands,  with  weary  limbs 
That  cannot  reach  him.     From  the  highest  hill, 
He  gazes  o'er  the  wild  whose  plains  he  spurn'd, 
And  his  eye  kindles,  and  his  breast  expands, 
With  an  upheaving  consciousness  of  might. 
He  stands  an  instant,  then  he  breaks  away, 
As  revelling  in  his  freedom.     What  if  art, 
That  strikes  soul  into  marble,  could  but  seize 
That  agony  of  action,  —  could  impress 
Its  muscular  fulness,  with  its  winged  haste, 
Upon  the  resisting  rock,  while  wonder  stares, 
And  admiration  worships  1     There,  —  away  — 
As  glorying  in  that  mighty  wilderness, 
And  conscious  of  the  gazing  skies  o'erhead, 
Quiver  for  flight,  his  sleek  and  slender  limbs, 
Elastic,  springing  into  headlong  force  — 


34  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

While  his  smooth  neck,  curved  loftily  to  arch, 
Dignifies  flight,  and  to  his  speed  imparts 
The  majesty,  not  else  its  attribute. 
And,  circling,  now  he  sweeps,  the  flow'ry  plain, 
As  if 'twere  his  —  imperious,  gathering  up 
His  limbs,  unwearied  by  their  sportive  play, 
Until  he  stands,  an  idol  of  the  sight. 

He  stands  and  trembles  !     The  warm  life  is  gone 
That  gave  him  action.     Wherefore  is  it  thus  ? 
His  eye  hath  lost  its  lustre,  though  it  still 
Sends  forth  a  glance  of  consciousness  and  care, 
To  a  deep  agony  of  acuteness  wrought, 
And  straining  at  a  point — a  narrow  point  — 
That  rises,  but  a  speck  upon  the  verge 
Of  the  horizon.     Sure,  the  humblest  life, 
Hath,  in  G-od's  providence,  some  gracious  guides, 
That  warn  it  of  its  foe.     The  danger  there, 
His  instinct  teaches,  and  with  growing  dread, 
No  more  solicitous  of  graceful  flight, 
He  bounds  across  the  plain — he  speeds  away, 
Into  the  tameless  wilderness  afar, 
To  'scape  his  bondage.     Yet,  in  vain  his  flight  — 
Vain  his  fleet  limbs,  his  desperate  aim,  his  leap 
Through  the  close  thicket,  through  the  festering  swamp, 
And  rushing  waters.     His  proud  neck  must  bend 
Beneath  a  halter,  and  the  iron  parts 
And  tears  his  delicate  mouth.     The  brave  steed, 
Late  bounding  in  his  freedom's  consciousness, 
The  leader  of  the  wild,  unreach'd  of  all, 
Wears  gaudy  trappings,  and  becomes  a  slave. 


AND    PICTURES.  35 

He  bears  a  master  on  his  shrinking  back, 
He  feels  a  rowel  in  his  bleeding  flanks, 
And  his  arch'd  neck,  beneath  the  biting  thong, 
Burns,  while  he  bounds  away  —  all  desperate  — 
Across  the  desert,  mad  with  the  vain  hope 
To  shake  his  burden  off.     He  writhes,  he  turns 
On  his  oppressor.     He  would  rend  the  foe, 
Who  subtle,  with  less  strength,  hath  taken  him  thus, 
At  foul  advantage — but  he  strives  in  vain. 
A  sudden  pang — a  newer  form  of  pain, 
Baffles,  and  bears  him  on — he  feels  his  fate, 
And  with  a  shriek  of  agony,  which  tells, 
Loudly,  the  terrors  of  his  new  estate, 
He  makes  the  desert  —  his  own  desert  —  ring 
With  the  wild  clamors  of  his  new  born  grief. 
One  fruitless  effort  more  —  one  desperate  bound, 
For  the  old  freedom  of  his  natural  life, 
And  then  he  humbles  to  his  cruel  lot, 
Submits,  and  finds  his  conqueror  in  man  ! 


NIGHT  WATCHING. 

How  still  is  this  night's  solitude — how  calm 
All  the  dim  nature  round.     I  hear  no  voice 
From  out  this  populous  city — see  no  light 
Beckoning  from  well-known  dwelling  of  my  youth, 
To  some  gay  hearth  and  laughing  company. 
Alone,  among  the  stranger,  I  am  sad, 


36  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Seeking  familiar  forms  I  may  not  find, 

And  sorrowing  in  that  bondage  of  the  clay 

That  checks  the  spirit's  flight  to  its  own  home, 

Beyond  the  heaving  waters.     There,  my  child, 

Plays  in  the  summer  flowers,  that,  while  they  glow, 

Have  lurking  death  beneath  them — Pestilence 

Walks  thither  in  the  noonday  ;  and  the  airs, 

Balm  breathing,  from  the  bosom  of  the  night, 

Are  tainted  with  the  fever  gale  that  reeks 

From  the  rank  gardens  and  o'erteeming  fields, 

That  yield  the  proud  man  plenty.     God  of  Heaven, 

Be  with  that  child  in  mercy.     Guard  her  well, 

With  thy  o'erwatchful  blessings.     Shield  her  breast 

From  sudden  night  winds;  —  from  her  red  lips  drive 

The  hovering  fever.     Be  thy  pitying  love 

Before  her  innocent  bosom,  that,  no  more, 

Her  father's  arm  may  shield — his  watchful  care 

Protect  by  human  providence — his  love, 

Die  for,  if  such  the  sudden  need,  when  wrong 

Strikes  at  the  imploring  trembler,  which  it  does 

When  peril  seems  least  present.     Here,  afar, 

My  knees  are  bent  to  thee  —  my  proud  heart  sinks 

In  pray'r,  —  the  big  tears  gather  in  my  eyes, 

And,  with  a  deep  humility  that  feels 

Its  weakness,  thinking  on  that  child  of  love, 

My  soul  implores  thy  blessings  on  her  head, 

In  smiles  that  bring  her  body  health — her  mind 

Ripeness  and  purity,  that  she  may  bloom, 

Worthy  of  life  and  happiness  and  thee. 

The  city  is  around  me,  but  its  strifes 

Are  hush'd  to  silence.     What  a  god  is  sleep, 


AND    PICTURES.  37 

That  can  so  chain  the  faculties  of  men, 

The  fearful  moods,  the  restless  energies, 

So  busy  and  so  turbulent  awhile, 

Some  three  hours  past,  and  now  so  sternly  still, 

It  seems  some  eastern  city  of  the  dead. 

Where  is  the  artisan  whose  hammer  clink'd 
On  the  fire-darting  anvil  through  the  day  1  — 
The  pedler,  who  was  vaunting  o'er  his  wares, 
His  worldly  wealth  about  him — rich  withal  1 
The  tradesman,  conning  o'er  his  daily  sales 
With  eager  lip,  and  eye  upon  the  watch, 
Not  to  be  over-bargain'd  1  —  where  the  youth, 
Anxious  for  honor  and  distinction,  won, 
By  noisy  declamation  in  the  crowd, 
About  the  forum  1  —  all  are  sunk  in  sleep  ! 
Sleep,  the  subduer  of  the  sick  man's  pulse, 
Bringer  of  pleasant  dreams  and  airy  thoughts, 
That  while  away  the  fever'd  toils  of  earth, 
And  give  a  bounding  impulse  to  the  blood, 
Distemper'd  by  the  noise-oppressed  brain  ! 
Thou  second  part  of  life,  that  art  a  death, 
Refitting  for  a  newer  start  in  life, 
And  nerving  with  a  freshness,  all  but  me  ! 

In  vain  I  look  upon  the  pensive  night, 
That  hangs  her  silver  crescent  in  the  sky,s 
Gather'd  on  fleecy  folds,  that  edge  the  blue 
Of  her  vast,  wild,  pavilion'd  canopy, 
And  wears  it,  as  a  warrior  does  his  shield, 
4 


38  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Unstain'd  by  dark  device,  or  mortal  dint, 

And  pure  and  spotless  as  a  vestal's  heart, 

Upon  the  hour  she  gives  herself  to  God ! 

There  is  no  breath  to  waken  up  the  leaf, 

That  sits  within  my  window — all  is  still — 

And  how  oppressive  grows  that  stillness  now  ! 

I  cannot  sleep.     A  spirit  at  my  head, 

Though,  with  the  day's  fatigue,  my  form  is  faint, 

Keeps  me  from  slumber.     Thought,  undying  thought, 

That  dost  pervade  life's  farthest  wilderness, 

Why  may  I  not  repose  with  those  who  take 

These  grateful  slumbers.     Wherefore,  in  my  soul, 

Still  would'st  thou  sound  the  silvery  cord  that  trills 

With  hope  of  life  —  the  sensible,  true  life 

Of  immortality  and  consciousness, 

That  is  forever  present  in  my  dreams, 

And  bears  me  with  a  meaning  impulse  on, 

Spite  of  the  rough  adventure  of  the  time, 

The  jostle  of  far-sighted  emulation, 

To  look  beyond  myself,  and  fondly  dare 

Converse  with  high  intelligence,  and  powers 

Beyond  man's  frail  existence  ! 

Do  the  stars 

Shine  forth  with  fuller  loveliness  to  me, 
That  thus  I  wake  to  watch  them  1     Is  the  moon 
Peculiar  in  her  gaze  to-night  ] — her  smile 
Sleeps  on  my  very  couch,  and  by  my  side  — 
And  in  the  imperfect  brightness  of  her  glance, 
Fantastic  forms  and  shadows  from  her  light, 


AND    PICTURES.  39 

Glide  through  the  chamber,  and,  with  fancy's  aid, 

Grow  human,  and  solicit  me  to  speech. 

And  now,  a  silvery  train  is  drawn  afar, 

Like  a  faint  thread  upon  the  utmost  verge 

Of  the  dun  sky  —  as  if  it  would  unite 

The  earth  I  wake  on,  arid  the  heaven  I  watch. 

It  is  the  star  of  my  nativity  — 

What  wonder  I  should  wake  to  watch  it  then, 

With  a  deep  fixedness  —  a  strong  desire, 

To  gather,  from  its  seeming,  all  my  hope  — 

Ambition's  hope — far  fitter  gods  than  men  — 

Which  lives  unto  the  peril  of  the  life 

That  is  my  mortal  being — wearing  away, 

Consuming  as  a  night-lamp,  dim,  untrimm'd, 

The  frame  and  sinews  of  the  nerveless  form, 

The  forest  boor  had  laugh'd  at  —  Lo  !  afar, 

It  shoots  along,  and  sheds,  in  its  lone  flight, 

A  rich  and  tremulous  lustre.     Does  it  wake, 

In  sympathy  with  me,  alone,  among 

Its  starry  train  of  rich  intelligences, 

As  I,  among  my  fellows  of  the  earth — 

Restless  alike  1  —  and  should  ambition  dwell 

So  high  above  the  mortal  part  of  life  1 

Yet  was  it  said,  ere  this,  in  ancient  time, 

Wlien  gods  were  on  the  earth,  in  guize  of  men, 

And  men,  in  action,  rivall'd  the  high  gods, 

That,  'twas  the  quality  of  heaven,  and  so 

Became  transmitted  to  the  humbler  race, 

With  whom  they  lightly  mingled ;    and  to  whom, 

They  gave  such  sad  inheritance  of  pride, 


40  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

High  reaching,  strong  desire,  and  boundless  want, 

Love  of  far  rale,  undying  thirst  of  praise, 

And  power  that  never  sleeps,  but  seeks  for  sway 

Through  peril,  and  foul  circumstance  and  blood — 

Heedless  that  pain  and  death  are  in  the  gift, 

Though  coupled  with  high  honor  !  —  fatal  gift  — 

That  saps  the  springs  of  life,  of  love,  of  peace, 

Eats  out  the  heart  with  a  concealed  fire, 

And  leaves  the  desolate  frame,  self-blasted,  thus, 

By  its  own  raging  spirit  overthrown, 

E'en  on  the  summit  of  its  towering  hopes. 

Oh  !  what  is  fame,  that  I  should  darken  youth — 

The  fresh  attire  of  morning — the  gay  sun, 

Of  my  young  destiny,  that  shone  so  fair, 

With  watching  thro'  the  night — the  sweet,  long  night, 

That  fills  my  eyes  with  gentle  dfbps,  to  see  — 

Sweet,  though  they  flow  from  out  the  fount  of  tears, 

Upon  my  heart,  like  dews  upon  the  flow'r 

In  Hermon's  valley  !     Doth  to  it  belong, 

Acknowledgment  'mong  men,  in  words,  whose  tone, 

Like  music,  offers  to  the  moody  soul, 

Whose  watchfulness  is  madness  1  —  No,  alas  ! — 

Nor  Time  himself,  shall  evermore  retrieve, 

The  life  that  I  have  lost !     Yet,  be  this  told, 

In  after  years,  when,  at  my  fireside  blaze, 

No  chair  shall  be  in  waiting  for  my  form, 

No  eye  to  smile  at  my  unlooked  approach, 

No  welcome  mine  ;  —  and  from  the  mossy  stone, 

The  imperfect  characters  which  love  hath  traced, 

Are  trodden  out  by  time  —  though  he  hath  failed 


AND    PICTURES.  41 

To  gain  the  planet's  burning  eminence, 

With  the  high  fires  that  he  so  oft  hath  watch'd, 

The  spirit  was  within  him,  and  he  strove, 

Unqualified  by  base  desire  or  deed, 

Most  nobly,  though,  perchance,  he  reach'd  them  not. 


SILENCE. 

THE  desert  hath  its  pyramid,  and  there, 
Silence  is  sovereign.     Mighty  is  his  throne, 
Untroubled  his  dominion,  un assailed, 
By  clamoring  subjects.     The  invader  there, 
Is  spell-bound  at  the  threshold,  and  grows  fix'd, 
And,  with  uplifted  finger  to  his  mouth, 
Stills  his  rebellious  voice,  and  glides  through  groves 
That  answer  to  the  summons  of  his  gaze, 
By  tokens  that  awaken  him  to  thought, 
Forgetful  of  vain  words  that  baffle  it. 
He  is  the  saddest  despot,  and  his  realm 
Is  older  even  than  time,  for  he  was  born, 
And  had  full  sway,  and  all  the  attributes 
Of  most  unlimited  rule,  ere  time  was  born, 
And  he  shall  sway,  when,  from  the  tomb  of  time, 
The  universal  consciousness  shall  spring, 
In  which  time  is  not.     'Till  that  dawning  hour, 
No  voice  shall  speak  for  his  secluded  realm, 
4* 


42  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Or  yield  a  tongue  to  that  abundant  life 

That  's  now  locked  up  in  shadow — deep  in  groves, 

Pale  groves,  that  sleep  in  mystery  secure, 

Still  guarded  by  our  fears.     But,  rising  then, 

A  moving  thing  of  wonder  and  of  life, 

Bright  in  the  place  of  the  decaying  sun, 

He  shall  have  language,  and  his  lips  shall  break 

The  spell  that  seals  them  down.     His  song  shall  wake 

Ten  thousand  songs  beside,  and  then  shall  be 

The  second  birth  of  light.     The  truth  revealed 

Shall  speak  with  myriad  voices,  yet  cold  ears 

Shall  drink  no  sounds- — shall  hear  no  breathing  words, 

Such  as  are  uttered  from  elaborate  lips 

And  by  the  violent  spirit.     In  his  sway, 

The  soul  shall  find  its  happiest  harmonies, 

And,  such  the  symmetry  of  his  perfect  tones, 

Our  dreams  shall  have  a  life,  and  eyes  shall  drink 

Knowledge  from  other  eyes.     A  worship  now, 

In  this  secluded  forest,  shall  impart 

Dim  shado wings  of  that  empire,  and  the  light 

That  makes  his  kingdom.     Hither,  when  I  rove, 

At  twilight,  do  the  glimmerings  lead  me  on, 

And,  in  a  moment's  consciousness,  that  seems 

Most  like  a  spirit's  whisper,  do  I  feel 

The  embodied  silence,  which  still  beckons  me, 

'Till  the  thick  woods  grow  round  me  like  a  wall, 

And  the  o'erclosing  trees  become  a  roof, 

And  so,  my  temple.     With  bow'd  head  and  heart 

I've  worshipped  in  that  temple,  at  his  feet, 

For,  in  the  wilderness,  where  selfish  man 


AND    PICTURES.  43 

Comes  never,  —  germined  in  the  sacred  groves, 

The  old  groves  of  dim  ages,  he  was  there, 

And  awed  me  like  a  god.     Solemnly,  then, 

I  bow'd  my  soul  within  me,  and  gave  up 

The  tone  of  my  low  thought,  and  straightway  felt 

The  holier  spirit.     Never  yet  before, 

Stood  I,  in  such  a  presence.     Solitude  — 

The  eternal  calm  and  quiet  of  the  earth, 

The  whisperings  and  vague  twilight  gleams  that  crept 

Through  the  close  tree  tops,  and  the  murmurs  there 

Full  of  divinest  harmony  ^ — o'ercame 

My  humbled  nature  ;  and  I  bow'd  me  down, 

Even  on  the  little  hillock  where  I  stood, 

And,  as  the  light  winds  rose,  and,  here  and  there, 

Shook  down  a  leaf  from  off  the  bending  pines, 

I  could  but  deem  that  silence,  that  sad  god, 

Detach'd  with  gentle  hand  those  yellow  leaves, 

In  token  of  his  melancholy  sway. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


THERE  was  a  goodly  barque,  that,  from  her  home, 
Went  freighted  on  the  deep.     A  noble  freight, 
Fond  hearts,  brave  spirits,  and  a  fearless  crew, 
And  loveliest  woman,  that  proud  vessel  bore, 
And  she  went  forth  in  sunshine.     Pleasant  winds 


44  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Bore  her,  with  gentle  sounds  most  musical, 
Cutting  the  lifted  seas,,  that  kept  a  peace 
Of  treachery,  and  whispered  not  of  storms, 
Lurking  in  wait,  like  savage  foes,  that  smile 
In  moment  of  their  stroke.     If  a  cloud  lay 
Along  that  vessel's  track,  it  lay  in  light, 
A  picture  for  the  eye.     They  had  no  fear, 
They  that  were  in  her,. —  and  three  days  went  by 
In  trust  and  sunshine.     Inconsiderate  mirth 
Laugh'd  out,  and  youthful  maidens  sang  aloud, 
'Till  the  rude  sailor,  charm'd  against  his  toils, 
Forgot  his  long  experience  of  the  seas, 
And  thought  of  wreck  no  more. 

But,  the  fourth  day, 

There  was  a  sudden  change  upon  the  deep, 
That  groan'd  in  all  its  hollows.     Night  rose  up 
In  anger.     Wild  and  sheeted  shapes  of  cloud 
Came  trooping  fast  to  follow  in  her  wake, 
And  do  her  bidding.     Faintly,  in  her  halls, — 
As  fearing  to  be  seen,  and  faltering  still, 
Amidst  the  scowling  of  those  ruffian  forms, 
That,  like  rude  boors,  wine-swill'd  and  insolent, 
Would  intercept  her  path  of  purity,  — 
The  pallid  moon  stole  forth.     With  trembling  step 
She  struggled  through  the  gloomy  clouds  that  rush'd 
In  fierce  delight,  on  wrath-intending  wing, 
And  jostled  in  their  flight.     But,  vain  her  toil,  — 
She  faints  at  last— is  swallowed  up  in  storm, 
And  the  fond  eyes  that  watch 'd  her  from  that  barque 
Now  look  for  her  in  vain.     A  pitchy  mass 


AND    PICTURES.  45 

Hangs,  brooding,  like  a  dusky  conqueror,  down, 
Above,  and  shadows  all  her  lovely  face. 

And  wilder  grows  the  tempest,  louder  yell 
The  winds  ;  —  and,  goaded  by  their  vigorous  lash, 
The  billows,  madly  plunging,  like  the  bull 
Press'd  by  the  hunter  on  Peruvian  plains, 
Toss  their  huge  limbs  on  high,  and  foam  with  rage. 
Man  strives — proud  man  —  brave  man  ! — and  woman 

cheers, 

Sweet  woman  ! — and  her  prayers  are  for  his  strength, 
And  his  strength  for  her  safety  !  —  But  the  deep 
Is  clamoring  for  its  prey.     Upon  the  sea 
A  terrible  spirit  rides,  and  rules  the  rest, 
And  laughs  with  equal  scorn  at  woman's  pray'r 
And  man's  endeavor.     In  white  foam  he  sits, 
A  tri-formed  giant.     From  one  hand  he  slips 
The  mounted  winds,  that  spurn  the  curb,  and  leap, 
Trampling  the  raging  waves,  and  laughing  wild 
In  their  excess  of  might.     Another  flings, 
Uncheck'd,  the  engulphing  waters  ; — from  a  third 
He  frees  the  rock  that  grows  beneath  the  keel, 
And  rends  its  ribs  asunder.     Thus,  he  rules 
The  elements  of  storm — the  winds,  the  seas, — 
And  from  the  unfathomable  caldron  there, 
Where  haggard  night,  a  sullen  witch,  presides, 
He  waves  his  ministers  forth.     Ready,  they  rise, 
And,  terrible  in  their  promptitude,  set  out, 
Like  unleash'd  fury  with  hei  thousand  whelps 
Bred  by  the  gnawing  famine.     Wing  after  wing, 
A  cloud  of  measureless  forms  that  whirl  and  wheel, 


46  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Like  night-born  vultures,  darting  through  the  void, 

Make  it  a  populous  world,  where  terror  strives 

With  danger,  and  grows  fearless  from  despair  ! 

The  seas  rage  in  their  caverns  of  the  deep, 

And  its  green  hollows  gape.     God  keep  that  ship, 

Toss'd  like  a  shell,  and  the  poor  souls  that  strive, 

And  shriek,  within  her !     Her  tall,  taper  masts, 

That  were  so  lovely  in  their  loftiness, 

What  can  they  now  against  the  giant  wings 

That  strain  upon  them  ]     Now  they  bend,  they  break, 

And  into  splinters  dash'd,  strew  the  wild  waves 

That  hurry  them  from  sight.     The  billows  grow 

Like  angry  demons  to  colossal  bulk, 

Until  they  touch  the  clouds ;  —  and  now  they  fall 

Upon  the  wretched  hulk  that  lies  a  wreck 

On  the  black  waters.     Through  her  sides  they  rush, 

And  in  their  wantonness  they  lift  her  high, 

As  the  strong  wrestler  lifts  his  yielding  foe, 

To  dash  her  into  pieces.     But  she  springs 

Once  more  above  them — mounting  them,  as  still 

With  all  her  wonted  energies  endued, 

She  could  assume  the  sway,  as  oft  before 

Her  buoyant  prow  maintain'd  it ; — but  in  vain  :  — 

They  rise,  they  gather  fast,  —  they  press  her  down, 

And  rage  in  fierce  delight,  as  glad  to  bow 

That  noble  crest,  erewhile,  that  .moved  along, 

Their  monarch,  and,  in  beautiful  disdain, 

Queen'd  it,  in  state,  above  them. 

Never  more 
Shall  she  thus  queen  it.     The  rebellious  waves 


AND    PICTURES.  47 

Have  risen  upon  their  ruler.     The  wild  steed 
Hath  hurl'd  his  rider  down  —  hath  trampled  him, 
And  bounds  away,  in  the  fierce  consciousness 
Of  his  new  power  of  flight.     The  pale  moon 
Comes  forth,  that  late  was  shrouded.     Her  sweet  orb 
Shall  be  no  more  a  beautiful  isle  to  those, 
Heart-hoping  and  heart-sick,  the  gay,  the  proud, 
Watchful  and  weary,  light  o'  thought  and  sad, 
That  moved  along  the  deck  of  that  proud  ship 
Late  speeding  o'er  the  waters  like  a  god. 
The  raging  seas,  thrown  off,  once  more  ascend, 
Gaining  from  opposition  double  strength, 
And  climb  her  painted  sides,  arid  break  away 
Her  bulwarks,  and  rush  through  her  secret  hold, 
With  greedy  rage  that  knows  not  to  consume, 
And  only  to  destroy,      Troop  follows  troop  — 
The  last  retreat  is  won,  —  yet  still  they  strive, 
They  that  are  in  her  ; — but  a  mother's  shriek 
That  follows  her  lost  child,  she  following  too, 
Proclaims  the  struggle  over.     The  black  wings 
Of  the  grim  tempest  settle  on  her  brow, 
And  the  gaunt  winds  grow  palpable,  and  sweep 
Resistless  o'er  her  deck — meeting  the  seas 
That  roar  in  the  embrace.     A  moment  more, 
A  single  moment,  that  despair  may  see, 
And  madden  in  the  sight —  and  all  is  done. 
Fear  shrieks  in  agony,  and  horror  gapes, 
Incapable  of  strife.     Man  looks  around, 
As  seeking  means  of  flight ;  while  woman  clings 
To  man,  and  childhood  chides  parental  love, 


48  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

That  will  not  save  it.     Hope,  that  linger'd  long, 
Flies  shrieking  with  the  winds,  —  and  down  she  sinks, 
That  shatter' d  barque,  as  one,  who,  long  fatigued 
By  aimless  struggle,  yields  at  last  to  fate, 
Resign'd — nay,  almost  glad, — that  all  is  o'er. 
God  !  what  a  cry  was  that !  a  living  death 
Spoke  in  it,  and  the  roaring  winds  grow  still — 
They  have  no  agony  to  match  with  that, 
And  cower  in  silence  while  it  passes  by. 

There  shall  be  weeping  for  that  fated  barque  !  — 
Sad  eyes  shall  watch  to  hail  her  loitering  sails, 
And  strain  themselves  to  redness  when  they  see 
Some  white  cloud,  resting,  with  a  dusky  edge, 
On  the  gray  foam  of  ocean.     They  will  watch 
That  sweet  delusion,  till  it  fades  at  last, 
Like  the  fond  hope  it  cherish'd  for  awhile, 
To  crush  forever. 

Brightly  the  young  day 

Leaps  from  his  saffron  couch,  and  shakes  his  hair, 
Sprinkling  the  east  with  pearly  drops  that  turn 
To  gold  beneath  his  smiles.     The  tempest  sleeps 
Among  the  fragments  of  that  broken  wreck, 
With  all  his  cruel  agents,  calm  and  still, 
Like  some  fierce  conqueror  that  lays  him  down 
Upon  the  battle-field,  among  the  dead, 
And  slumbers  'mid  the  ruin  he  has  wrought. 
No  sign  of  wrath  !  —  still  as  the  gallant  ship 
That  men  will  look  for  with  expectancy, 


AND    PICTURES.  49 

And  find  a  broken  spar  that  was  a  mast, — 

Dreaming  at  night,  they  see  her  homeward  bound, 

With  a  rich  cargo  of  choice  spices  stored, 

And  gentle  spirits  wafting  her  with  breath 

Of  most  impatient  hope.     Dream  on,  dream  on ! 

The  gallant  ship  is  lost  with  all  her  crew, 

The  gold  of  her  brave  hearts  is  in  the  deep, 

Her  spices  perfume,  and  her  silks  invest 

The  giant  limbs  of  ocean  when  he  sleeps. 


THE  INDIAN  VILLAGE, 

NATURE  and  freedom  !     These  are  glorious  words 

That  make  the  world  mad.     Take  a  glimpse  at  both, 

Such  as  you  readily  find,  when,  at  your  ease, 

You  plough  the  ancient  military  trace, 

From  Georgia  to  the  "  Burnt  Corn"  settlements  — 

Or,  higher  up,  if,  happily,  you  speed, 

Where  the  gaunt  Choctaw  lingers  by  the  swamps 

That  fence  the  Yazoo,  or  the  Chickasaw 

Steals  his  hog  nightly  from  the  woodman's  close, 

And  gets  a  furlough  from  all  service  thence, 

In  a  keen  bullet  at  an  hundred  yards. — 

—  Uplift  thy  glass,  and  tell  me  what  thou  seest. 

A  screaming  brat  that  lash'd  upon  his  board 
Hangs  rocking  in  the  tree — the  dam  beneath, 
5 


50  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

A  surly  drudge  that  never  once  looks  up, 

But  hills  and  hoes  her  corn,  as  if  her  soul 

Lay  clamoring  there  for  sudden  and  strong  help, 

And  perish'd  in  her  pause  —  an  ugly  cur, 

Mangy  and  most  unclean,  that,  yelping,  runs 

For  shelter  at  our  coming — two  green  skins 

That  clothed  the  brown  deer  of  the  woods  last  night, 

Wrapped  now  about  the  oak,  beneath  whose  boughs, 

Their  owners  browsed  at  evening,  ere  the  tribe 

Sent  the  young  hunters  forth — and  lo  !  a  group, 

Women  and  children,  in  that  happy  state, 

Ere  Adam  wove  his  fig  leaves,  and  became 

A  tailor  for  the  nonce — that  round  one  hole 

Bend  down,  clay  digging  for  their  pots  and  pans, 

The  baking  fire  at  hand — and  then  the  huts, 

They  fill  the  background — linger  not  to  look, 

Or,  in  rebellion,  justified  of  man, 

Our  nostrils  will  rise  up  and  nullify. 

A  more  legitimate  picture  for  good  taste, 

And  the  heroic,  basking  in  the  sun, 

Behold  the  chiefs — five  warriors  of  the  wild, 

That  may  be  sung  in  story — vigorous  men, 

Ready  for  strife  and  trial,  scalp  and  stroke, 

But  monstrous  lazy.     There  is  "  Turkey  Foot"  — 

Not  slow  to  run  ;-^  Achilles-like,  his  heel 

Is  sadly  mortal.     There's  "  Flat  Terrapin," 

No  runner  he,  I  ween.     A  braver  man 

Than  the  "  Gray  Weasel"  never  sought  the  fight, 

But  then  he  loves  fire  water,  and  even  now, 

Not  scrupulous  to  meet  the  stranger's  eye, 


AND    PICTURES.  51 

See,  his  head  dangles  from  the  unsinew'd  neck, 

And  bobs  from  side  to  side.     The  "  Crooked  Path," 

A  double  dealing  rogue  as  ever  lived, 

Looks  like  a  cutpurse,  and  among  the  tribe 

Such  is  his  high  renown.     No  counsellor 

Can  deal  with  him  in  subtle  argument, 

No  fox-like  politician  double  so, 

In  getting  round  the  wild  "  cape  positive," 

To  channel  "  non-committal ;" — happy  he, 

To  steer  between  those  breakers  "  yes"  and  "  no," 

Yet  leave  no  furrow  on  his  sinuous  path 

As  guide  point  to  a  troublous  enemy. 

Last  of  this  group,  behold  old  "  Blazing  Pine," 

Though  but  a  pine  knot  now.     His  seventy  years 

Have  all  been  tasted,  yet  his  limbs  are  strong, 

And  bear  him  still  in  the  chase.     His  keen  eye 

Not  often  fails  to  mark — his  steady  hand, 

Still  sends  the  bolt,  with  most  unerring  stroke, 

Into  the  brown  deer's  flank. 

These  warriors  brave 

Will  all  be  drunk  by  night.     The  sober  now, 
Drunk  with  the  drunkest.     The  already  drunk, 
Mad — looking  for  their  weapons  in  the  dark, 
Beating  the  winds,  the  walls,  striving  with  trees, 
And  one  another — impotent  but  fierce, 
And  foaming  with  the  fury  unappeased  — 
Till,  in  their  madness,  with  their  emptied  bottles 
They  '11  break  the  old  squaw's  head,  and  she  will  fly 
Howling  for  vengeance.     She  will  swim  yon  stream, 


52  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Her  blood  still  streaking,  as  she  scuds  along, 

The  wave  that  washes  'gainst  her  shattered  scull. 

Seeking  for  safety  'mong  her  kindred  tribe 

Of  the  "  Mud  Turtles,"  she  will  head  a  war, 

And  they  will  lose  their  scalps  with  infinite  grace 

To  one  another.     War,  with  its  long  train 

Of  toils  and  injuries,  will  rive  their  fields, 

Destroy  their  little  maize  crops  and  frail  towns, 

And  leave  them  starving.     Want  will  then  produce 

The  peace  that  came  not  with  prosperity, 

And  they  will  link  their  arms,  and,  in  small  groups, 

Steal  nightly  over  to  the  opposite  shore 

And  rob  the  squatter's  farm  yard.     Cows  and  calves 

They  '11  drive  across  the  stream     The  young  corn 

They  '11  burst  from  its  green  column,  and  the  pigs  — 

They  barbacue  as  well  at  an  Indian  camp 

As  at  a  white  man's  muster.     What  comes  next  1 

The  squatter  goes  against  the  savages, 

And  drives  them — a  most  sad  necessity, 

Much  mourned  by  modern-mouthed  philanthropy — 

Into  yet  deeper  forests.     Five  years  hence, 

And  the  foul  settlement  we  gaze  on  now 

Will  be  a  city  of  the  paler  race, 

Having  its  thousand  souls.     Churches  will  rise, 

With  taverns  on  each  hand.     To  the  right,  see, 

A  gloomy  house  of  morals,  called  a  gaol, 

And,  from  the  town  hall,  on  the  opposite  square, 

You  yet  shall  hear  some  uncombed  orator, 

Discourse  of  freedom,  politics,  and  law, 

In  tones  shall  make  your  blood  bound,  and  your  hair 


AND    PICTURES.  53 

Start  up  in  bristles.     Turning,  you  shall  see, 
"  Flat  Terrapin,"  "  Gray  Weasel,"  and,  perchance, 
The  aged  "  Blazing  Pine,"  —  all  Christians  now, 
Cowering,  bewildered,  'mong  the  heedful  crowd 
Which  hangs  delighted  on  the  patriot's  words  — 
Heedful,  delighted,  drunk  as  any  there  ! 


REPININGS. 

"  MY  brother !"  said  before  me  a  sweet  maid, 
Who  looked  a  sister's  feeling  from  her  eye, 
And  thereupon  I  wept ;  —  for  I  had  none, 
Brother  nor  sister  —  and  my  way  of  life 
Hath  been  among  the  hills,  and  where  the  waste, 
Sandy,  and  like  the  ocean-plane  spread  out, 
Pains  the  sick  eye  with  gazing.     I,  alas  ! 
Have  known  no  brother's,  felt  no  sister's  love, 
Drank  fondly  of  no  blessings,  such  as  make 
A  cottage  fireside  a  home  like  heaven, 
Where  all  is  peace  and  truth.     Yet  less  I've  sought, 
Of  love,  than  of  permission  but  to  love,  — 
The  right  to  choose  from  out  the  hurrying  crowd 
My  thing  of  worship.     I  have  none  to  love  — 
None  for  whose  single  good  my  heart  may  hope  — 
None  for  whose  choice  delight  my  form  may  rove, 
Bringing  home  dearest  treasures.     Mine  hath  been 
5* 


54  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

The  life  of  want  that  sister  had  supplied  — 

The  other  self,  — most  sweet,  most  singular, 

To  whom,  as  to  an  altar  of  high  thought, 

My  heart,  when  otherwise  denied,  might  turn, 

Secure  of  comfort.     You  may  hold  it  weak 

That  thus  I  wept,  hearing  that  maiden  call 

The  youth  that  stood  beside  her.     But,  I  had  given 

Worlds  had  she  called  me  thus.     Had  she  but  placed 

Her  arm  upon  my  own,  —  looked  in  my  face 

With  that  dear  smile  of  confidence,  and  said 

"  My  brother,"  I  had  proudly  made  her  thence 

My  deity,  and  she  had  fill'd  my  heart, 

Forever  more,  its  soul  and  sovereign. 


THE    INUTILE    PURSUIT. 

LABORS  he  then  for  nought,  who  thus  pursues 
What  you  misdeem  a  vision?     Does  he  build 
Vain  fancies  only,  warm  delusions,  up, 
And  profitless  chimeras ;  —  still  deceived,  — 
Cheating  himself  with  hopes,  which  haply  cheat 
None  other  than  himself?     Are  these  his  toils, — 
And  you  who  work  in  more  substantial  ways, 
And  vex  the  seasons,  man,  all  elements, 
In  multiplying  gains  —  you  are  more  wise, 


AND    PICTURES. 

And  laugh  to  scorn  the  fool  whose  idle  aim, 

Like  the  warm  painter  of  his  own  bright  hues, 

Enamored  —  would  impart  to  things  around, 

The  glories  that  are  growing  in  his  heart, 

And  kindling  up  his  fancy  into  flame. 

His  are  vain  follies,  but  can  yours  be  less, 

And  what  are  their  delights  ?     I  will  not  ask — 

But  yon  wild  dreamer  gazing  on  the  stars 

As  if  they  were  his  kindred,  what  are  his  1 

He  gazes  on  them  long,  with  musing  mood 

That  thinks  not  once  of  earth.     His  spirit  flies 

Afar,  on  eagle  pinions — he  hath  lost 

The  world  which  is  around  him — he  hath  gain'd 

The  world  which  is  above  him,  and  he  feels 

A  mightier  spirit  working  in  his  soul 

Than  thou  hast  ever  dreamed  of.     He  hath  thoughts, 

That  yield  him  strength  and  life  —  a  treasury 

In  which  thy  gold  is  dross ;  and  could'st  thou  give 

Thy  thousands  in  the  barter,  they  could  buy 

No  portion  of  the  empire  he  hath  won 

In  the  fond  thought  he  strives  in.     He  hath  felt 

That  life  should  have  due  play,  and  every  nerve 

Susceptible  of  consciousness,  should  do 

Its  separate  function,  ministring  to  the  whole, 

Or  you  have  never  lived,  or  lived  in  vain  — 

Having  quick  feelings,  generous  taste  and  blood, 

At  wraste,  or  rioting,  or  unemployed 

And  damming  up  the  system  they  should  move. 

You  see  no  charm  in  those  mysterious  lights, 

And  hold  the  worship  madness,  which  bestows 

No  worldly  profit.     Thou  hast  yet  to  learn 


56  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

The  things  of  highest  profit  to  the  heart, 

Are  never  things  of  trade.     'T  would  be  thy  shame, 

Star-gazing  like  yon  dreamer,  to  be  seen 

By  brother  tradesmen.     They  would  jeer  thee  much 

With  alehouse  humor  ;  and  their  truculent  wit, 

"Would  bring  the  creature  blood  into  thy  cheeks, 

And  thou  wouldst  feel  among  thy  brother  men 

As  thou  hadst  done  some  crime,  and  for  awhile, 

Would  shrink  from  the  relation  of  thy  deeds. 

He  thou  rebukest  in  no  kindly  wise, 

Has  no  such  shame  within  him.     In  that  star, 

He  hath  surveyed  this  hour,  he  joys  to  think 

He  looks  on  God's  own  handiwork,  and  deems, 

So  far  as  he  may  venture  on  such  theme, 

The  structure  of  that  planetary  light, 

Marvellous  as  his  own,  and  born  to  shine, 

When  he,  and  thou,  and  all  of  us  are  dead  ! 

Thence  does  he  draw  a  hope  —  a  glorious  hope  — 

That  this  poor  struggle — thou,  for  earth's  goods  and  gear, 

And  he,  as  thou  hast  thought,  grappling  at  nought, 

But  fancies  and  a  shadow  —  will  not  be, 

What  his  quick  spirit  tutors  him,  is  life. 

The  difference  'twixt  his  hope,  and  thine,  is  great, 

If  thou  hast  never  tutor'd  thus  thy  heart, 

Nor  felt  of  these  delusions.     He,  indeed, 

Lives  on  them  ever  —  is  made  up  of  them, 

And  glories  more  in  that  thou  think'st  thy  shame, 

Than  any  Greek  who  won  a  hecatomb, 

Or  Roman  with  his  triumph.     Nor  in  this 

Alone,  gathers  he  fuel  for  the  mood 


AND    PICTURES.  57 

That  lessons  his  wild  spirit.     In  all  things, 
For  the  vain  labor  thou  dost  so  deplore, 
Mind  has  its  compensation.     Ideal  worlds, 
Where  spirits  of  departed  myriads  roam, 
Are  in  the  poet's  fancy.     He  surveys, 
In  every  leaf,  each  waving  tree  and  bush, 
Wild  ocean,  or  still  brooklet,  rippling  down, 
Through  twigs  and  bending  osiers,  night  and  day, 
The  form  of  some  enjoyment  —  some  true  word, 
From  never  swerving  teachers,  building  up, 
The  moral  of  his  faith  into  a  pile, 
Its  apex  in  the  heavens.     Nor,  in  this  work 
Of  self-perfection  and  self-eminence, 
Lacks  he  for  aid  and  fellowship.     They  come  — 
Spirits,  and  whispering  shades,  that,  in  the  hush, 
The  stillness  of  deep  forests,  are  abroad, 
Obedient  to  his  beck,  whose  lifted  heart, 
May  see  them,  and  demand  their  services, 
And  make  them  slaves  or  teachers,  at  his  will. 
Mock  not  the  dream  you  may  not  understand, 
Nor  laugh  to  scorn  the  spirit,  whose  pursuit, 
Stands  not  within  the  custom  of  the  crowd. 
The  God,  who,  to  the  measurement  of  trade, 
Impelled  your  aim  —  to  him,  perchance,  assign'd 
A  duty — not  like  yours,  and  yet  not  less, 
A  duty  ;  —  and  he  but  pursues  it  now, 
Even  as  assign'd  him.     The  still  flow'r  that  hides, 
With  speckled  leaf  secure  beneath  yon  cliff, 
Gives  odor  to  the  breeze  that  cheers  the  heart 
Of  the  consumptive  —  not  less  blest  in  this 


58  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Sad  office,  than  the  tree  whose  inner  ring 
Yields  the  small  pouncet  box  from  which  you  feed 
That  nose  you  turn  up,  with  so  wise  an  air, 
At  the  poor  gazer  on  yon  journeying  stars. 


VENERATION. 

SHALL  we  not  give,  of  all  the  past  has  brought  us, 

A  something  to  the  future  1 
Your  father  left  you  a  most  noble  statue, 

The  chisel'd  work  of  Phidias  ; 
You  have  a  son  that  one  day  will  demand  it — 

'Twas  left  in  trust  to  you. 
'Twas  not  alone  your  wealth — it  did  belong 

To  all  your  grandsire's  family. 
He  had  a  thought,  when  dying,  that  look'd  forward, 

To  countless  heirs  and  ages  — 
No  limit  stopt  the  wish  of  the  immortal, 

His  eye,  from  the  dim  summit, 
Had  glimpses  of  the  vast  eternity  — 

His  foot  was  on  its  threshold. 
Where  are  his  noble  lands,  his  fine  old  mansion, 

The  grounds,  the  garden —  all, 
He  took  such  pains  to  cultivate  and  finish, — 

Have  pass'd  away  to  strangers  — 
His  children  wander  into  foreign  countries, 


AND    PICTURES.  59 

Their  toils  and  deeds  ignoble  — 
?Twas  you  that  robb'd  them  of  their  heritage, 

The  old  familiar  images, 
That,  in  the  flight  of  ages,  grow  to  teachers, 

And  lift  the  soul  that  listens. 
Exiled  from  home  and  fortune,  they  are  exiles 

From  places  that  were  holy, 
'Till  they  have  none  of  the  old  religion  left, 

And  fly  the  ancient  temples. 
Traitor  to  trusts,  that  hope  and  love  had  hallow'd, 

And  age  had  made  most  sacred, — 
Answer !  the  shadows  of  old  time  demand  it, 

And  summon  for  the  future  — 
Thou  hast  been  false  to  both,  hast  lived  for  neither, 

But  to  the  selfish  present  hast  devoted 
The  rights  of  time — go,  profligate — make  answer 

To  the  eternity,  and  hear  thy  doom. 
As  thou  hast  lived  but  for  thyself,  go  perish, 

There  is  no  need  of  thee,  — 
Nor  God,  nor  man,  nor  time,  eternity, 

Neither  have  need  of  thee. 


WASHINGTON. 


AND  the  genius  of  death,  with  his  brow  bound  about 
with  the  gloomy  hemlock,  and  bearing  in  his  hands  a  liv 
ing  but  a  leafless  cypress  stood  beside  the  couch  where 
Washington  lay : 


60  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

"  I  will  quench  this  light,"  said  the  genius — "  I  will 
overcome  this  lofty  spirit,  which,  forgetting  me,  mankind 
delights  to  honor." 

"  Thou  quench  this  light,  —  thou  overcome  this  spirit!" 
—  replied  the  genius  of  eternal  fame,  standing  also 
beside  the  couch  of  the  sleeping  father;  — "  Oh,  fool, 
that  thou  art ! — he  hath  given  thee  immortality  in  dying 
at  thy  hands." 


FIRST    DAY    OF    SPRING. 

OH  !  thou  bright  and  beautiful  day, 
First  bright  day  of  the  virgin  spring, 

Bringing  the  slumbering  life  into  play, 
Giving  the  leaping  bird  his  wing. 

Thou  art  round  me  now  in  all  thy  hues, 

Thy  robe  of  green,  and  thy  scented  sweets, 

In  thy  bursting  buds,  in  thy  blessing  dews, 
In  every  form  that  my  footstep  meets. 

I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  lark's  clear  note, 
In  the  cricket's  chirp  at  the  evening  hour; 

In  the  zephyr's  sighs  that  around  me  float, 
In  the  breathing  bud  and  the  opening  flower. 


_*?  "     ^  *  -3M& 

*  -  ^W-      \  " 

AND    PICTURES.  61 

I  see  thy  forms  o'er  the  parting  earth, 

In  the  tender  shoots  of  the  grassy  blade, 
In  the  thousand  plants  that  spring  to  birth, 

On  the  valley's  side  in  the  home  of  shade. 

'.-*  '»    .        '  f 

I  feel  thy  promise  in  all  my  veins, 

They  bound  with  a  feeling  long  suppress'd, 

And,  like  a  captive  who  breaks  his  chains, 
Leap  the  glad  hopes  in  my  heaving  breast. 

There  are  life  and  joy  in  thy  coming,  spring, 
Thou  hast  no  tidings  of  gloom  and  death, 

But,  buds  thou  shakest  from  every  wing, 

And  sweets  thou  breathest  with  every  breath. 


SONG    BIRD    AND    FLOWER, 


IN  the  forest  deep  a  flower  was  growing, 

In  the  forest  deep,  without  a  peer ; 
To  its  secret  home  in  beauty  glowing,1 

Came  one  day  a  lovely  song  bird  near  : 
With  wild  strain  of  love  enamor'd  flying, 

To  the  flowret's  lips  at  last  he  press'd, 
And,  another  moment,  he  was  lying, 

Lying  close,  and  nestling  in  her  breast. 
6 


62  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

II. 

Day  by  day  He  flew  to  seek  the  flower, 

Blooming  in  that  forest  wild  and  deep, 
And  when  came  at  last  the  parting  hour, — 

And  he  left  her, — she  was  left  to  weep. 
But,  when  later  every  day  returning, 

Sad  and  sick  she  chided  his  delay, 
"  Wherefore,  when  my  heart  is  for  thee  burning, 

Dost  thou  linger,  loved  one,  by  the  way  V 

in. 

Gayly  then,  with  song,  the  bird  replying 

Vex'd  the  gentle  spirit  which  adored  ;  — 
"  O'er  a  thousand  forests  I've  been  flying, 

To  a  thousand  flowers  that  call  me  lord  !" 
Like  the  pliant  grass  in  heavy  showers, 

Sank  the  flowret  then  with  many  a  tear, — 
"  Thou,"  she  cried,  "  hast  sought  a  thousand  flowers, 

I  were  most  happy  with  one  song  bird  here." 


SYMPATHIES. 

SPEAK,  thou  soft  and  rippling  river, 
Wherefore  dost  thou,  ceaseless,  ever, 
To  my  always  listening  ear 
That  one  name  of  beauty  bear  ? 


AND   PICTURES.  63 

And  thou  breeze,  forever  present, 
With  a  murmur  thus  incessant, 
Wherefore  dost  thou  still  repeat 
That  same  name  in  accents  sweet  ? 

And  ye  stars  in  beauty  beaming, 
Why,  upon  my  sight  still  streaming, 
Do  ye  ever  link  the  same, 
The  sweet  letters  of  her  name  ? 

Birds,  that  gather,  round  me  springing, 
Wherefore  are  ye  always  singing, 
With  a  voice  so  softly  clear, 
That  same  name  upon  mine  ear  ? 

And,  while  in  your  garden  bowers, 
Wherefore  do  ye  thus,  ye  flowers, 
That  same  name,  of  flowers  the  chief, 
Write  upon  each  rosy  leaf  1 

Answered  then  the  rippling  water, 
Breeze,  and  stars,  and  birds,  with  laughter — 
"  'Tis  not  we  who  thus  repeat 
What  your  spirit  holds  so  sweet — 

"  Your  own  heart,  with  many  voices 
In  that  magic  word  rejoices, 
And  they  fondly  link  her  name 
With  all  objects  still  the  same  :  — 


64  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

"  There's  no  beauty  born  in  nature, 
But  partakes  of  true  love's  feature  ; 
And  each  charm  the  earth  supplies, 
Brings  the  loved  one  to  our  eyes. 

"  Thus,  from  true  love,  men  inherit 
Virtue's  taste  and  beauty's  spirit  j 
Nor,  without  it,  can  they  trace 
The  true  charm  of  either  face. 

"  Love  is  nature's  life  and  essence, 
From  it  comes  its  joy  and  pleasaunce : 
Nature's  ministers  are  we, 
Thus  we  sing  of  love  to  thee-." 


THE  NEW   MOON. 

"  BEND  thy  bow,  Dian  !  shoot  thy  silver  shaft 

Through  the  dark  bosom  of  yon  murky  cloud, 

That,  like  a  shroud, 

Hangs  heavy  o'er  the  dwelling  of  sweet  night !" 

And  the  sky  laugh'd, 

Even  as  I  spake  the  words  ;  and,  in  the  west, 

The  columns  of  her  mansion  shone  out  bright ! 

A  glory  hung  above  Eve's  visible  brow, 

The  maiden  empress  !  — and  she  glided  forth 


AND    PICTURES.  65 

In  beauty,  looking  down  on  the  tranced  earth, 

So  fondly,  that  its  rivulets  below 

Gushed  out  to  hail  her,  as  if  then  first  blest 

With  the  soft  motion  of  their  voiceless  birth. 

A  sudden  burst  of  brightness  o'er  me  broke  — 

The  rugged  crags  of  the  dull  cloud  were  cleft 

By  her  sharp  arrow,  and  the  edges  left, — 

How  sweetly  wounded  !  — silver'd  with  the  stroke, 

Thus  making  a  fit  pathway  for  her  march, 

Through  the  blue  arch  ! 


THE  LOST  VOICE. 

WHEREFORE  this  solid  silence,  this  deep  gloom, 
Where  all  was  song  and  sunshine — now  no  more  "? 
Bewilder'd  echoes  throng  each  hollow  room, 
And  pallid  cheeks,  and  eyes  all  streaming  o'er, 
Why  do  they  thus  deplore  ? 
Some  strings  of  a  true  instrument  are  gone, 
And  the  dumb  nature  mourns.     In  the  dark  sky 
Is  there  no  tempest-scattered  pageantry, 
Thunder  and  threatening  clouds,  that,  hurrying  by, 
Proclaim,  in  many  a  deep  and  hollow  tone, 
They  too  have  learnt  to  moan  j 
Sad  lesson  !  where  the  heart, 
True  love  and  generous  faith, 
6* 


66  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Up-looking  hope  and  innocent  desire, 
Are  the  pale  students,  and  in  pain  acquire 
The  mystery  of  their  melancholy  art, 
From  the  dread  teacher,  death  — 
And  being  thus  taught,  expire  ! 

Is  there  no  sun  to-day, 

To  chase  these  gloomy  troops  of  clouds  away, 

That,  with  their  sable  banners  march  on  high, 

Making  a  solemn  shade  ! 

Oh,  for  the  glorious  and  strong  voice  which  made 

These  echoes  —  yon  blue  sky, 

As  through  its  vaulted  and  far  depths  it  stray'd, 

While  stars  were  in  their  places  watchers  by, 

Pregnant  with  melody. 

Nor  yet  of  melody — sweet  sounds  —  alone  ! 

To  the  rapt  sense,  on  which,  even  as  a  spell, 

Its  honied  accents  fell, 

Had  it  not  magic  in  that  passionate  tone, 

When  with  a  tremor  wild  and  pleasing  fear, 

It  shook  the  slumbering  ear  1 

Such,  in  the  forum,  to  the  thronging  crowd, 

Even  at  its  summons  gather'd,  while  the  foe 

Thunder 'd  upon  the  city  gates  aloud, 

Was  its  strong  influence,  when,  'mid  cries  of  "  wo  !" 

But  with  no  sign  of  fear, 

It  bade  the  young  men  gather  and  prepare 

Bravely  to  do  and  dare  ;  — 

While  the  sad  matrons — with  a  gentle  tone, 


AND    PICTURES.  67 

Possess'd  by  it,  alone  — 

Won  from  their  griefs,  bound  up  their  flowing  hair, 

And  girded  on  each  favorite  chief  his  arms, 

And  bless'd  him  with  their  charms  ; 

And  sent  him  forth,  without  a  single  sigh, 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

The  spirit  unto  which  this  voice  was  given, 

Had  been  the  work  of  heaven  ; 

Men  felt  the  presence  at  its  lightest  word, 

And,  in  the  hour  of  peril  and  of  gloom, 

When  each  one  had  his  prayer  of  death  preferr'd,  . 

And  thought  upon  his  tomb, 

That  voice,  as  through  the  solitude  it  came, 

Like  the  fine  music  of  some  spirit  bird, 

Fresh  come  from  richest  bowers  of  Eden  bloom, 

Fill'd  those  with  hope  and  heart  who  droop'd  with  shame, 

Roused  up  the  unconscious  sleeper  with  a  name, 

And  kindled  all  who  heard. 

Nor,  in  the  perilous  hour  and  night  alone, 

Heard  we  its  magic  tone. 

Was  there  a  gladness  in  the  city's  walls, 

And  did  the  illumined  rows  of  windows  shine, 

And  countless  mirrors  deck  the  gorgeous  halls, 

Flowing  with  wit  and  wine  1  — 

All  had  been  sad  unless  that  voice  were  there  — 

The  song  unheard,  the  generous  wine  unquaff'd, 

The  lights  all  dim,  the  merriment  unlaugh'd, 

And  mirth,  grown  sick,  or  hush'd  in  sudden  fear, 


68  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Had  hung  his  head  in  shame. 
Enthusiast  in  merriment  as  strife, 
With  spirit  breathing  an  unslumbering  life, 
In  every  scene  and  trial,  it  became 
The  soul-arousing  flame. 

It  won  each  heart,  and  soothing  even  the  sad, 
The  oppressed  and  trampled  bosom,  taught  to  feel 
The  soothing  temper  of  its  warm  appeal, 
Grew,  with  the  spirit  of  the  season,  glad. 
Their  griefs  were  all  departed  in  that  hour, 
And  tears  had  no  existence  ;  who  could  keep,' 
With  miser-care,  his  gloom,  and  inly  weep, 
Where,  by  the  heavens  endowed,  that  voice  spoke  forth 
in  power. 

He  had  won  lessons  where  the  eagle  builds, 

High  'mong  the  untrodden  mountains.     He  had  grown 

Skilled  in  the  spirit's  flight  o'er  boundless  fields, 

And  trod  each  maze  alone. 

He  had  no  fear  of  the  tempest,  but  could  stray 

Where  lightnings  took  their  play ; 

Like  the  audacious  bird,  he  thought  to  gaze 

Even  on  the  noonday  blaze  — 

And  many  an  impulse  high, 

True  thought,  and  lofty  sense,  and  generous  mood 

A  worship  of  the  things  that  may  not  die, 

Without  idolatry, 

Lesson'd  him  greatly  in  the  solitude. 

Nor,  when  the  eagle  scream'd,  did  the  young  dove 

Withhold  the  gentler  music  of  her  brood  — 

She  taught  him  how  to  love. 


AND    PICTURES.  69 

They  neither  teach  him  more  — 

The  eagle's  wing  is  down, 

The  young  dove's  note  is  o'er, 

And  upward,  from  the  valley,  comes  a  moan, 

For  a  high  spirit  gone. 

The  matrons  of  the  city  send  a  wail 

Upon  the  fitful  gale  — 

The  warrior's  sword  is  crossed  upon  a  bier, 

His  spirit  slumbers  there  :  — 

And  valor  weeps  a  leader — friendship  reels, 

Wildly,  beneath  the  blow  her  spirit  feels  ; 

The  patriot's  soul  is  sorrowful,  and  love, 

Moaning  apart  with  many  an  active  fear, 

Weeps  she  not  with  the  dove  ? 


THE    LOST    PLEIAD. 


NOT  in  the  sky, 

Where  it  was  seen, 

Nor  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistering  wave, 

Nor  in  the  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep,  — 

Though  green, 

And  beautiful,  its  caves  of  mystery,  — 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

A  place  —  and,  as  of  old,  high  station  keep. 


70  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

II. 

Gone,  gone ! 

Oh,  never  more  to  cheer 

The  mariner  who  holds  his  course  alone 

On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night, 

When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers  and  do  sleep, 

Shall  it  appear, 

With  the  sweet  fixedness  of  certain  light, 

Down-shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  deep. 

HI. 

Vain,  vain ! 

Hopeful  most  idly  then,  shall  he  look  forth, 

That  mariner  from  his  bark,  — 

Howe'er  the  north 

Doth  raise  his  certain  lamp  when  tempests  low'r — 

He  sees  no  more  that  perish'd  light  again  ! 

And  gloomier  grows  the  hour 

Which  may  not,  through  the  thick  and  crowding  dark, 

Restore  that  lost  and  loved  one  to  her  tower. 

IV. 

He  looks,  —  the  shepherd  on  Chaldea's  hills, 

Tending  his  flocks,  — 

And  wonders  the  rich  beacon  doth  not  blaze 

Gladdening  his  gaze  ; 

And,  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks, 

Guiding  him  safely  home  through  perilous  ways  ! 

How  stands  he  in  amaze, 


AND    PICTURES.  71 

Still  wondering,  as  the  drowsy  silence  fills 
The  sorrowful  scene,  and  every  hour  distils 
Its  leaden  dews — how  chafes  he  at  the  night, 
Still  slow  to  bring  the  expected  and  sweet  light, 
So  natural  to  his  sight ! 

v. 

And  lone, 

Where  its  first  splendors  shone, 

Shall  be  that  pleasant  company  of  stars, — 

How  should  they  know  that  death 

Such  perfect  beauty  mars, — 

And,  like  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath, 

Fallen  from  on  high, 

Their  lights  grow  blasted  by  its  touch  and  die  — 

All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony, 

Snapt  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone. 

VI. 

A  strain — a  mellow  strain — 

Of  wailing  sweetness,  fill'd  the  earth  and  sky  ; 

The  stars  lamenting  in  unborrowed  pain 

That  one  of  the  selectest  ones  must  die ; 

Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest ! 

Alas  !  'tis  ever  more  the  destiny,  — 

The  hope,  heart-cherish'd,  is  the  soonest  lost, 

The  flower  first  budded  soonest  feels  the  frost, 

Are  not  the  shortest-lived  still  loveliest  1  — 


72  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And,  like  the  pale  star  shooting  down  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest  when  they  fly 
The  desolate  home  they  blest ! 


TO    THE    BREEZE: 

AFTER  A   PROTRACTED    CALM    AT    SEA. 
I. 

THOU  hast  been  slow  to  bless  us,  gentle  breeze  — 

Where  hast  thou  been  a  lingerer,  welcome  friend  ] 
Where,  when  the  midnight  gathered  to  her  brow 
Her  pale  and  crescent  minister,  wert  thou  ? 
On  what  far,  sullen,  solitary  seas, 
Piping  the  mariner's  requiem,  didst  thou  tend 

The  home-returning  bark — 
Curling  the  white  foam  o'er  her  lifted  prow, 
White,  when  the  rolling  waves  around  her  all  were  dark  ] 

ii. 

Gently,  and  with  a  breath 
Of  spicy  odor  from  sabsean  vales, 
Where  subtle  life  defies  and  conquers  death, 
Fill'dst  thou  her  yellow  sails  ! 

On,  like  some  pleasant  bird, 
With  glittering  plumage  and  light-loving  eye, 


AND    PICTURES.  73 

While  the  long  pennant  lay  aloft  unstirred, 

And  sails  hung  droopingly, 
Camest  thou  with  tidings  of  the  land  to  cheer 

The  weary  mariner. 

^ 

in. 

How,  when  the  ocean  slept, 

Making  no  sign — 
And  his  dumb  waters,  of  all  life  bereft, 

Lay  'neath  the  sun-girt  line — 
His  drapery  of  storm-clouds  lifted  high 

In  some  far,  foreign  sky, 
While  a  faint  moaning  o'er  his  bosom  crept, 

As  the  deep  breathings  of  eternity, 
Above  the  grave  of  the  unburied  time, 
Claiming  its  clime  — 

How  did  the  weary  tar, 
His  form  reclined  along  the  burning  deck, 

Stretch  his  dim  eye  afar, 
To  hail  the  finger,  and  delusive,  speck, 
Thy  bending  shadow,  from  some  rocky  steep, 

Down-darting  o'er  the  deep  ! 

IV. 

Born  in  the  solemn  night, 
When  the  deep  skies  were  bright, 
With  all  their  thousand  watchers  on  the  sight  — 
Thine  was  the  music  through  the  firmament 
By  the  fond  nature  sent, 
7 


74  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

To  hail  the  blessed  birth,, 
To  guide  to  lowly  earth, 
The  glorious  glance,  the  holy  wing  of  light ! 

v. 

Music  to  us  no  less, 

Thou  comest  in  our  distress, 
To  cheer  our  pathway.     It  is  clear,  through  thee, 

O'er  the  broad  wastes  of  sea. 
How  soothing  to  the  heart  that  glides  alone, 
Unwatched  and  unremembered,  on  the  wave, 

Perchance  his  grave  !  — 
Should  he  there,  perish,  to  thy  deeper  moan 

What  lip  shall  add  one  tone  ! 

VI. 

I  bless  thee,  gentle  breeze  ! 
Sweet  minister  to  many  a  fond  desire, 

Thou  bear'st  me  to  my  sire, 
Thou,  and  these  rolling  seas  ! 
What — oh,  thou  God  of  this  strong  element ! 

Are  we,  that  it  is  sent, 
Obedient  to  our  fond  and  fervent  hope  1 

But  that  its  pinion  on  our  path  is  bent, 
We  had  been  doomed  beyond  desire  to  grope, 
Where  plummet's  cast  is  vain,  and  human  art, 

Lacking  all  chart. 


AND    PICTURES.  75 


FLOWERS   IN   AUTUMN. 


SWEET  roses,  that  alone  beneath  the  sky, 
The  mellow  sky  of  autumn,  are  of  all 

Life's  and  remember'd  nature's  blandishments 
Purest  and  sweetest, — ye  shall  haply  fall 

Into  a  yellow  sickliness  and  die. 

The  gentle  heart  that  loves  your  luxury, 

And  deems  ye  pilgrims  from  some  sweeter  sky, 
This  might  appal ; 

But  that  your  purple  hues  and  delicate  scents 

Have  taken  up  abode  with  memory — 
She  will  not  let  ye  fly  ! 

n. 
Upon  your  broken  stalk, 

Hung  drooping  in  her  tears  and  desolate, 
Sadly,  in  wild  but  well-accustomed  walk, 

She  mourns  your  hapless  fate  : 
Well  she  remembers  when,  in  early  spring, 

The  swallow  won  his  wing ; 
How  she  has  sought,  in  thought-imprison'd  mood, 

Your  solitude, — 

Glad  to  behold  ye,  speechless  monitors, 
Having  a  sweet,  sad  sorrow,  most  like  hers. 

in. 

And  ye  repaid  her,  well  repaid,  in  kind  — 
For  where,  in  what  far  vale, 


76  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Where  summer's  infant  warbler,  from  a  throat, 
Bursting  with  joyous  scream  and  attic  note, 

Pours  to  the  blooming  year  his  garrulous  tale, — 
Could  she  have  stray 'd  to  find 

Odor  like  that  ye  lavish'd  on  the  gale, 
At  the  warm  instance  of  the  southern  wind  1 

IV. 

Ye  shudder  not  to  die  — 
Ye  struggle  not  to  fly, 
With  feeble  yearnings  striving  to  oppose, 
The  blight  that  o'er  ye  blows. 
Sure  some  true  instinct  bids  ye  moralize, 
And  fits  ye  to  restore  to  the  pure  skies 

The  sweets  we  know  ye  by  ! 

And,  meekly,  to  your  doom, 
Ye  bend  to  meet  the  summoning  of  death, 
And,  with  no  murmuring  breath, — 
Save  when  the  harbor'd  zephyr  from  ye  goes — 

Resign  your  hallow' d  bloom  ! 

v. 

Ah,  happy  !    thus  to  fall,  — 

To  melt  into  the  sleep  of  earth,  and  all 

The  long  repose,  the  prelude  calm  of  heaven  — 

And  sweet  the  instinct  given, 

That  takes  from  death  his  dart, 

And  schools  the  throbbing  and  impatient  heart, 
Calmly,  from  life,  —  its  little  hopes,  its  toys, 
Of  idle  promise,  and  seducing  noise, — 


AND    PICTURES.  77 

Unmurmuring  thus,  like' ye,  sweet  flowers,  to  part ! 

And  such  hath  been  your  teaching — this,  I  feel, 
As,  with  a  pictured  gaze,  I  fondly  look 
Upon  your  leaves,  where,  as  in  written  book, 

A  pure  philosophy  ye  do  reveal, — 

So  were  ye,  uncomplaining,  called  to  die, 
And  yield  your  parting  odors  to  the  sky. 


FALL    OF    THE    LEAF. 


THE  leaves,  the  pleasant  and  green  leaves,  that  hung 
Abroad,  in  the  gay  summer  woods,  are  dead  ; 

They  cannot  hear  the  requiem  which  is  sung, 
By  the  sad  birds  they  may  no  more  imbed ; 

And  the  old  stems  to  which  they  should  have  clung 

Time-honored  for  their  beauty,  through  long  hours, 
Wither' d  and  wrung, 

Have  perish'd  with  the  flowers  !  • — 

I  marvel  that  their  last  dirge  be  not  said. 

ii. 

Shall  not  the  vagrant  and  light-wooing  breeze, 

Fresh  from  his  native  seas 
In  the  Pacific,  wandering  with  the  sun, — 

While  bending  on,  throughout  the  well  known  trees 

7* 


78  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

That  yield  no  shelter  to  that  desolate  one  — 

Prepare  his  dirge,  and,  on  the  midnight  gale, 
In  token  of  his  scattered  luxuries, 
1   Pour  forth  his  wail ! 
Shall  he  not  sing  in  grief, 
One  last  lament  above  each  withered  leaf ! 


in. 

He  hath  not  stay'd  his  flight, 

But,  tracking  the  lone  land  bird,  he  hath  bent 
His  insusceptible  wing  throughout  the  night, 

Far  as  the  fancy's  sight 
Might  trace  the  dim  lines  of  the  firmament — 

And,  ere  the  gray  dawn  from  his  ocean-bed 
Rush'd  to  the  visible  heav'n,  hath  turned  his  plume 

To  where  the  flow'rs,  in  a  sweet,  tremulous  bloom. 

"Were  wont  to  yield  perfume,  — 
And,  like  some  spirit  o'er  which  hangs  a  doom, 
He  comes  to  find  them  dead. 

IV. 

And  hath  he  then  no  wail  1  — 

And  folding  round  him  not  his  mourning  wing, 
Will  he  forbear  to  sing 

The  melancholy  anthem,  and  sad  tale  1 
Shall  he  not  say,  he,  who  forever  grieves, 

The  story  of  the  leaves  ? 
And,  with  a  tone  to  match  the  sad  complain, 

And  desolate  aspect  of  the  world  around, 


AND    PICTURES.  79 

Shall  he  not  pour  along  the  waste  that  strain 

Of  wild  and  incommunicable  sound, 
Which  in  the  Mexic  gulph  the  seaman  hears, 
Like  scream  of  the  lone  sea-gull  in  his  ears, 
Vexing  the  black  profound  ] 

v. 

The  plaint  he  utters  forth,  to  human  sense, 

Though  meaningless  and  vague,  hath  yet  a  tone, 
To  the  dumb  nature  full  of  competence, 

And  wrought  for  her  alone  : 
Yet,  even  in  human  thought,  it  still  must  bear 

The  semblance  of  a  moan, — 
And  fancy  deems  the  wanderer  in  his  grief, 

His  home  all  desolate,  his  soul  all  drear, 
Thus  wails  the  perish' d  leaf : 

VI. 

"  Never — O !  never  more, 
Unburied  honors  of  the  pilgrim  year,  — 

In  your  bright  garb  of  green, 
With  crisped  veins  from  nature's  palmy  print, 
And  each  sweet  scent,  and  lovely  tinge  and  tint, 

Shall  ye  appear, 

The  roving  sense  to  charm,  the  eye  to  cheer  : 
The  time,  —  sweet  time  ! — that  ye  and  I  have  seen, 

Is  o'er,  forever  o'er  ! 
Ye  feel  me  not — I  press  ye,  never  more  — 

My  early  joy,  your  loveliness, — how  brief! 


80  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

I  may  forget  ye  on  some  happier  shore, 
But,  on  your  fruitless,  now,  and  scentless  bier, 
I  leave  my  tear!" 

VII. 

Away !  away  ! 

Far  in  the  blaze  of  the  descending  day, 
After  that  brief  lament,  he  spreads  his  wings  — 
Now  that  the  summer  charm  that  led  astray 
The  licensed  rover  of  deep  Indian  seas, 

No  longer  clings, 
With  blossoming  odor,  wooing  his  wild  flight — 

And,  but  the  ruin  of  the  leafless  trees 
Is  there  in  token  of  the  common  blight ! 

Ah  !  who  hath  not  been  hopeless  as  the  breeze  1 
Whose  leaves  and  flow'rs,  secure  against  the  doom, 
Have  ever,  through  all  seasons,  kept  their  bloom, 
Nor  perish'd  in  a  night  1 


LOVE   IMPERIAL. 


WITH  an  unpresuming  face, 
And  a  manner  soft  and  sly, 

Love  imperial  steals  apace 

When  you  little  deem  him  nigh, 


AND    PICTURES.  81 


You  may  note  his  searching  glance, 
In  the  absent-seeming  eye  — 

You  may  trace  him  in  the  trance 
Of  a  young  idolatry. 

ii. 

There  are  spirits  yet  to  win, 

There  are  bosoms  still  to  try, 
And  he  deems  it  not  a  sin 

To  extend  his  sovereignty — 
With  a  spell  of  wilder  power 

Than  the  other  kings  may  ply, 
He  will  scale  the  haughty  tower, 

Though  it  rugged  be,  and  high. 

in. 

He  hath  armed  him  with  a  spark 

From  a  young  and  artless  eye, 
And  he  strikes  the  lofty  mark, 

Which  would  other  force  defy  ; 
And  the  lofty  tow'r  goes  down 

In  the  conflagration  high, 
And  the  chieftain  leads  he  on 

In  a  far  captivity. 

IV. 

In  the  wildest  storm  he  soars, 
He  is  safe  in  every  sky ; 

And  he  wins  the  farthest  shores 
With  a  wing  of  victory  ! 


82  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Sleepless  still,  he  speeds  apace, 
When  you  little  deem  him  nigh, 

And  he  wins  the  hardest  race 
That  his  erring  wing  may  try. 

v. 

He's  the  prince,  the  prince  of  power, 

And  we  bow  to  him  alone,  — 
He's  the  lord  of  tent  and  tower, 

Of  the  cottage  and  the  throne. 
Peer  and  peasant,  clime  and  hour, 

AH  alike  to  him  are  known, 
And  we  yield  him  up  the  flower, 

And  the  fruit  of  every  zone. 


TRUE    LOVE. 


AND  wherefore  mourn  the  love  that's  fled, 
Regard  it  as  some  blessed  dream, 

That,  on  the  half  shut  eye,  has  shed 
A  golden  but  a  fleeting  gleam. 

n. 

A  holy  light  that  breaks  perchance, 
Through  evening  vapors  on  the  eye, 

Then,  glad  of  its  deliverance, 

Floats  upward  to  the  blessed  sky. 


AND    PICTURES.  83 


THE    SLAIN    EAGLE. 

THE  eye  that  marked  thy  flight  with  deadly  aim, 

Had  less  of  warmth  and  splendor  than  thine  own  ; 
The  form  that  did  thee  wrong  could  never  claim 

The  matchless  vigor  which  thy  wing  hath  shown  ; 

Yet  art  thou  in  thy  pride  of  flight  o'erthrown  ; 
And  the  far  hills  that  echoed  back  thy  scream, 

As  from  storm-gathering  clouds  thou  sent'st  it  down, 
Shall  see  no  more  thy  red-eyed  glances  stream 
From  their  far  summits  round,  with  strong  and  terrible 
gleam. 

Lone  and  majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  !  9 

No  more  I  see  thee  on  the  tall  cliff's  brow, 

When  tempests  meet,  and  from  their  watery  shroud 
Pour  their  wild  torrents  on  the  plains  below, 
Lifting  thy  fearless  wing,  still  free  to  go, 

True  in  thy  aim,  undaunted  in  thy  flight, 
As  seeking  still,  yet  scorning,  every  foe  — 

Shrieking  the  while  in  consciousness  of  might, 
To  thy  own  realm  of  high  and  undisputed  light. 

Thy  thought  was  not  of  danger  then — thy  pride 
Left  thee  no  fear.  Thou  hadst  gone  forth  in  storms, 

And  thy  strong  pinions  had  been  bravely  tried 
Against  their  rush.     Vainly  their  gathering  forms 
Had  striven  against  thy  wing.     Such  conflict  warms 


84  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

The  nobler  spirit ;  and  thy  joyful  shriek, 

Gave  token  that  the  strife  itself  had  charms 
For  the  born  warrior  of  the  mountain  peak, 
He  of  the  giant  brood,  sharp  fang,  and  bloody  beak. 

How  didst  thou  then,  in  very  mirth,  spread  far 

Thy  pinions'  strength! — with  freedom  that  became 

Audacious  license,  with  the  winds  at  war, 

Striding  the  yielding  clouds  that  girt  thy  frame, 
And,  with  a  fearless  rush  that  nought  could  tame, 

Defying  earth  —  defying  all  that  mars 

The  flight  of  other  wings  of  humbler  name  ; 

For  thee,  the  storm  had  impulse,  but  no  bars 
To  stop  thy  upward  flight,  thou  pilgrim  of  the  stars  ! 

Morning  above  the  hills,  and  from  the  ocean, 

Ne'er  leaped  abroad  into  the  fetterless  blue, 
With  such  a  free  and  unrestrained  motion, 
Nor  shook  from  her  ethereal  wing  the  dew 
That  else  had  clogged  her  flight  and  dimmed  her 

view, 

With  such  calm  effort  as  'twas  thine  to  wear — 
Bending  with  sunward  course  erect  and  true, 
When  winds  were  piping  high  and  lightnings  near, 
Thy  day-guide  all  withdrawn,  through  fathomless  fields 
of  air. 

The  moral  of  a  chosen  race  wert  thou, 

In  such  proud  fight.    From  out  the  ranks  of  men  — 
The  million  moilers,  with  earth-cumbered  brow, 

That  slink,  like  coward  tigers  to  their  den, 


AND    PICTURES.  85 

Each  to  his  hiding-place  and  corner  then  — 
One  mighty  spirit  watched  thee  in  that  hour, 
Nor  turned  his  lifted  heart  to  earth  again  ; 
Within  his  soul  there  sprang  a  holy  power, 
And  he  grew  strong  to  sway,  whom  tempests  made  not 
cower. 

Watching,  he  saw  thy  rising  wing.     In  vain, 
From  his  superior  dwelling,  the  fierce  sun 

Shot  forth  his  brazen  arrows,  to  restrain 

Th'  audacious  pilgrim,  who  would  gaze  upon 
The  secret  splendors  of  his  central  throne ; 

Proudly,  he  saw  thee  to  that  presence  fly, 
And  Eblis-like,  unaided  and  alone, 

His  dazzling  glories  seek,  his  power  defy, 
Raised  to  thy  god's  own  face,  meanwhile,  thy  rebel  eye. 

And  thence  he  drew  a  hope,  a  hope  to  soar, 

Even  with  a  wing  like  thine.     His  daring  glance 

Sought,  with  as  bold  a  vision,  to  explore 
The  secret  of  his  own  deliverance  — 
The  secret  of  his  wing — and  to  advance 

To  sovereign  sway  like  thine — to  rule,  to  rise 
Above  his  race,  and  nobly  to  enhance 

Their  empire  as  his  own  —  to  make  the  skies, 
Th'  extended  earth,  far  seas,  and  solemn  stars,  his  prize. 

He  triumphs  —  and  he  perishes  like  thee  ! 

Scales   the    sun's  heights,   and   mounts  above   the 
winds, 
8 


86  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Breaks  down  the  gloomy  barrier,  and  is  free ! 
The  worm  receives  his  winglet :  he  unbinds 
The  captive  thought,  and  in  its  centre  finds 

New  barriers,  and  a  glory  in  his  gaze, 

He  mocks,  as  thou,  the  sun  I — but  scaly  blinds 

Grow  o'er  his  vision,  till,  beneath  the  daze, 
From  his  proud  height  he  falls,  amid  the  world's  amaze. 

And  thou,  brave  bird  !    thy  wing  hath  pierced  the 
cloud, 

The  storm  had  not  a  battlement  for  thee  ; 
But,  with  a  spirit  fetterless  and  proud, 

Thou  hast  soared  on,  majestically  free, 

To  worlds,  perchance,  which  men  shall  never  see  ! 
Where  is  thy  spirit  now  1  the  wing  that  bore  1 

Thou  hast  lost  wing  and  all,  save  liberty  ! 
Death  only  could  subdue  —  and  that  is  o'er  : 
Alas  !  the  very  form  that  slew  thee  should  deplore  ! 

A  proud  exemplar  hath  been  lost  the  proud, 

And  he  who  struck  thee  from  thy  fearless  flight — 

Thy  noble  loneliness,  that  left  the  crowd, 
To  seek,  uncurbed,  that  singleness  of  height 
Which  glory  aims  at  with  unswerving  sight — 

Had  learned  a  nobler  toil.     No  longer  base 

With  lowliest  comrades,  he  had  given  his  might, 

His  life — that  had  been  cast  in  vilest  place  — 
To  raise  his  hopes  and  homes  —  to  teach  and  lift  his  race. 

'Tis  he  should  mourn  thy  fate,  for  he  hath  lost 
The  model  of  dominion.     Not  for  him 


AND    PICTURES.  8;7 

The  mighty  eminence,  the  gathering  host 

That  worships,  the  high  glittering  pomps  that  dim, 
The  bursting  homage  and  the  hailing  hymn  : 

He  dies — he  hath  no  life,  that,  to  a  star, 
Rises  from  dust  and  sheds  a  holy  gleam 

To  light  the  struggling  nations  from  afar, 
And  show,  to  kindred  souls,  where, fruits  of  glory  are. 

Exulting  now,  he  clamors  o'er  his  prey ; 

His  secret  shaft  hath  not  been  idly  sped ; 
He-  lurked  within  the  rocky  cleft  all  day, 

Till  the  proud  bird  rose  sweeping  o'er  his  head, 

And  thus  he  slew  him  !    He  should  weep  him  dead, 
Whom,  living,  he  could  love  not — weep  that  he, 

The  noble  lesson  taught  him,  never  read — 
Exulting  o'er  the  victim  much  more  free' 
Than,  in  his  lowly  soul,  he  e'er  can  hope  to  be. 

'Tis  triumph  for  the  base  to  overthrow 

That  which  they  reach  not — the  ignoble  mind 
Loves  ever  to  assail  with  secret  blow 

The  loftier,  purer,  beings  of  their  kind  : 

In  this  their  petty  villany  is  blind  ; 
They  hate  their  benefactors  —  men  who  keep 

Their  names  from  degradation — men  designed 
Their  guides  and  guardians  :  well,  if  late  they  weep 
The  cruel  shaft  that  struck  such  noble  hearts  so  deep. 

Around  thy  mountain  dwelling  the  winds  lie  — 
Thy  wing  is  gone,  thy  eyry  desolate ; 


88  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Oh,  who  shall  teach  thy  young  ones  when  to  fly,  — 
Who  fill  the  absence  of  thy  watchful  mate  1 
Thou  type  of  genius  !  bitter  is  thy  fate, 
A  boor  has  sent  the  shaft  that  leaves  them  lone, 

Thy  clustering  fellows,  guardians  of  thy  state  — 
Shaft  from  the  reedy  fen  whence  thou  hast  flown, 
And  feather  from  the  bird  thy  own  wing  hath  struck 
down! 


INVOCATION. 

COME,  Chevillette,  my  own  love,  corns- with  me, 
No  idle  pomp,  no  bustling  world,  I  seek ; 

Enough,  if  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 

I  watch  thy  glistening  eye  and  glowing  cheek. 

Enough,  if  in  thy  gentle  heart  and  eye, 

Mine  own  may  find  a  warm,  responsive  flame, 

Enough,  if  in  thy  murmur  and  thy  sigh, 

Breathed  out  from  love's  own  lips,  I  hear  my  name. 

Thy  hand  in  mine,  thy  spirit  watchful  still, 
Of  what  mine  own  hath  spoken,  and  thy  heart 

Filled  with  that  hope  which  love  can  best  fulfil, 
We  feel  how  sweet  to  meet,  how  sad  to  part. 


AND    PICTURES.  89 

Come,  be  a  dweller  in  this  quiet  grove, 

And  teach  the  wild  vine  how  to  gather  round, 

While,  with  thy  lips,  still  breathing  songs  of  love, 
To  the  deep  woods  thou  lend'st  a  genial  sound. 

Things  gentle  shall  be  won  to  gather  near, 
Solicitous  of  all  the  sweets  thou  bring'st, 

And  the  young  mock-bird,  bending  down  his  ear, 
Shall  emulous  listen  whensoe'er  thou  sing'st. 

Toward  eve,  the  frisking  rabbit  'neath  thine  eyes, 
Shal]  overlay  the  grass  plat  near  our  cot ; 

The  squirrel,  as  from  tree  to  tree  he  flies, 

Fling  the  clismember'd  branches  o'er  the  spot. 

Thy  gentle  nature,  winning  as  their  own, 
Theirs  all  un wronging,  shall  a  favorite  be ; 

And  they  will  gather  round  thy  forest  throne, 

And  own  thy  sway,  and  love  thy  chains,  like  me. 

Come,  be  a  dweller  in  this  quiet  grove, 

Sweet  heart !  and  with  thy  spirit  true  as  fine, 

Attune  the  sleeping  chords  of  life  to  love, 
Till  the  high  harmonies  shall  kindle  thine. 

Shut  out  the  world's  coarse  discords,  till  no  more 
Thy  heart  shall  hear  of  violence  or  grief, 

And  heaven,  in  mercy  to  our  lot,  restore 

The  bloom  of  Eden,  blissful,  but  how  brief  1 

8* 


90  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 


CHANGES  OF  HOME. 


WELL  may  we  sing  her  beauties,  this  pleasant  land  of  ours, 
Her  sunny  smiles,  her  golden  fruits,  and  all  her  world  of 

flow'rs ; 
The  young  birds  of  her  forest  groves,  the  blue  folds  of 

her  sky, 

And  all  those  airs  of  gentleness,  that  never  seem  to  fly ; 
They  wind  about  our  forms  at  noon,  they  woo  us  in  the 

shade, 
When  panting,  from  the  summer's  heats,  the  woodman 

seeks  the  glade ; 
They  win  us  with  a  song  of  love,  they  cheer  us  with  a 

dream, 
That  gilds  our  passing  thoughts  of  life,  as  sunlight  does 

the  stream  ; 
And  well  would  they  persuade  us  now,  in  moments  all 

too  dear, 
That,  sinful  though  our  hearts  maybe,  we  have  our  Eden 

here. 

H. 

Ah,  well  has  lavish  nature,  from  out  her  boundless  store, 
Spread  wealth  and  loveliness  around,  on  river,  rock,  and 

shore  : 
No  sweeter  stream   than  Ashley  glides — and,  what  of 

southern  France  ! — 


AND    PICTURES.  91 

She  boasts  no  brighter  fields  than  ours,  within  her  matron 

glance; 
Our  skies  look  down  in  tenderness  from  out  their  realms 

of  blue, 

The  fairest  of  Italian  climes  may  claim  no  softer  hue  j 
And  let  them  sing  of  fruits  of  Spain,  and  let  them  boast 

the  flowers, 
The    Moors'   own  culture,  they  may  claim  no  dearer 

sweet  than  ours  — 

Perchance  the  dark  haired  maiden  is  a  glory  in  your  eye, 
But  the  blue  eyed  Carolinian  rules,  when  all  the  rest  are 

nigh. 

in. 

And  none  may  say,  it  is  not  true,  the  burden  of  my  lay, 
'Tis  written,  in  the  sight  of  all,  in  flow'r  and  fruit  and  ray  ; 
Look  on  the  scene  around  us  now,  and  say  if  sung  amiss, 
The  song  that  pictures  to  your  eye,  a  spot  so  fair  as  this : 
Gay  springs  the  merry  mock-bird  around  the  cottage 

pale,  — 
And,  scarcely  taught  by  hunter's  aim,  the  rabbit  down 

the  vale; 
Each  boon  of  kindly  nature,  her  buds,  her  blooms,  her 

flow'rs, 
And,  more  than  all,  the  maidens  fair  that  fill  this  land  of 

ours, 
Are  still  in  rich  perfection,  as  our  fathers  found  them 

first, 
But  our  sons  are  gentle  now  no  more,  and  all  the  land  is 

curst. 


92  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

IV. 

Wild  thoughts  are  in  our  bosoms,  and  a  savage  discon 
tent, 
We  love  no  more  the  life  we  led,  the  music,  nor  the 

scent ; 

The  merry  dance  delights  us  not,  as  in  that  better  time, 
When  glad,  in  happy  bands  we  met,  with  spirits  like  our 

clime, 

And  all  the  social  loveliness,  and  all  the  smile  is  gone, 
That  link'd  the  spirits  of  our  youth,  and  made  our  people 

one  ; 

They  smile  no  more  together,  as  in  that  earlier  day, 
Our  maidens  sigh  in  loneliness,  who  once  were  always 

gay; 

And  though  our  skies  are  bright,  and  our  sun  looks  down 

as  then  — 
Ah,  me !  the  thought  is  sad  I  feel,  we  shall  never  smile 

again. 


SLUMBER. 


FROM     THE    ITALIAN. 


SWEET  is  slumber — it  is  life 

Without  its  sorrow,  sin  or  sighing- 

Death,  without  the  fearful  strife, 
The  mortal  agony  of  dying. 


AND    PICTURES.  93 


THE    EUTAW    MAID. 

r«*5  .rrm-;i-  .          [JOCK!  -ei^  - 

The  battle  of  the  Eutaw  Springs,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  events  of 
the  revolution,  is  well  known  in  the  history  of  the  partisan  warfare 
carried  on  in  the  southern  department.  This  little  ballad  has  reference 
to  that  affair. 


IT  was  in  Eutaw's  covert  shade,  and  on  a  hill-side  stood, 

A  young  and  gentle  Santee  maid,  who  watch'dthe  distant 
wood, 

Where  he,  the  lov'd  one  of  her  heart,  in  fearful  battle 
then, 

Had  gone  to  flesh  his  maiden  sword  with  Albion's  mar 
tial  men, 

Untaught  in  fight,  and  all  unused  to  join  the  strife  of 
blows,  — 

Oh!  can  there  be  a  doubt  with  her,  how  the  deadly 
battle  goes  1 

ii. 

And  wild  the  din  ascends  from  far,  and  high  in  eddying 
whirls, 

Above  the  forest  trees  and  wide,  the  sulphur  storm- 
cloud  curls, 

And  fast  and  thick  upon  her  ear,  the  dreadful  cries  of 
pain, 

The  groan,  the  shriek,  the  hoarse  alarm,  run  piercing  to 
her  brain; 


94  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

She  may  not  hope  that  he  is  safe,  when  thousands  fall 

around, 
But  looks  to  see  his  bloody  form  outstretch'  d  upon  the 

ground. 

in. 

There  's  a  cry  of  conquest  on  the  breeze,  the  cannon's 

roar  is  still, 
She  dares  not  look,   she  does  not  weep,  her  trembling 

heart  is  chill  : 
The  tramplings  of  the  victors  come  in  triumph  through 

the  glade, 
She  hears  the  loud  note  of  the  drum,  the   clattering  of 

the  blade, 
Perchance  that  very  blade  is  red  with  the  blood  of  him 

her  love  ; 
The  thought  is  death,  and  down  she    sinks   within  the 

woodland  grove. 


A  gentle  arm  entwines  her  form  —  a  voice  is  in  her  ear, 
Which,  even  in  death's  cold  grasp  itself,  't  would  win 

her  back  to  hear  ; 
Her  lips  unclose,  her  eyes  unfold,  once  more  upon  the 

light, 
And  he  is  there,  that  gallant  love,  unharm'd,  before  her 

sight  ; 

Now  happy  is  that  Santee  maid,  and  proudly  blest  is  he, 
And,  in  her  face,  the  tear  and  smile  are  strangely  sweet 

to  see. 


AND    PICTURES.  95 


THE  TRYST    OF   ACAYMA. 


FAIR  'fall  the  Indian  maiden,  who  sits  by  yonder  stream, 
For,   though  her  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  she   dreams  a 

happy  dream  ; 

She  waits  Panaco's  coming,  —  he  left  her  for  the  shore, 
"Where,  bursting  through  the  Darien  rocks,  Atrato's  wa 

ters  roar  ; 

A  poison'd  javelin  fill'd  his  hand,  a  knife  was  by  his  side, 
And  countless  were  the  valiant  chiefs,  beneath  his  arm 

that  died  ;  — 

A  brave  among  the  bravest,  the  first  to  lead  was  he, 
When  down  the  mountain  warriors  sped  to  meet  the 

Caribbee. 

ii. 

A  fear  is  in  Acayma's  heart,  and  yet  that  heart  is  glad, 
For,  bless'd  with  brave  Panaco's  love,  it  could  not  well 

be  sad; 
Three  moons  ago  he  sought  her  tent,  —  "  Where  is  the 

maid  ?"  said  he, 
"  I  segkvtbut  one  of  all  the  tribe  that  wanders  by  the 


His  eye  is  on  Acayma,  —  she  dares  not  look  on  high, 
Though  well  she  knows,  that  happy  hour,  she  stands  be 
neath  his  eye,  — 


96  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

His  hand  is  on  the  maiden's  hand,  —  she  felt  her  bosom 

heave  ;  — 
He  kept  the  willing  heart  and  hand,  she  had  no  power 

to  give. 

in. 

'Twas  by  the  rapids  of  the  stream  that  down  the  moun 
tain  fell, 

Just  where  Biloxi's  iron  head  looks  o'er  Senonee's  dell. 
"  I'll  watch  these  babbling  waters,  and  they  shall  speak 

for  thee  ;" 
The  maiden  cried,  — "  and  tell  me  why  thou  lingerest 

by  the  sea  ;  — 
"  I  know  thou  dost  not  love  me  :  — "  then  lightly  did  he 

reach, 
And,  sprinkling  with  the  falling  drops,  he  stayed  her  idle 

speech ; 
Then  laughing  long,  and  looking  back,  he  bounded  down 

the  steep, 
And  in  her  very  joy  of  heart,  the  maiden   could  but 

weep. 


IV. 

But  weary  grow  the  lengthening  hours,  and  shadows  of 
distress 

Now  haunt  the  heart,  that,  in  its  love,  still  finds  its  lone 
liness  ; 

The  tears  of  joy  that  filled  her  eye  when  first  Panaco 


'     ..       *  f 

AND    PICTURES.  97 

Are  dry — but  down  the  silent  rocks  her  gloomy  glance 

is  sent ; 
A  thousand  fears  are  in  her  thought — she  plucks  and 

rends  the  flow'rs, 
And  anxious  looks,  where,  in  the  sky,  a  heavy  tempest 

lowers ; 
Though  none  may  better  guide  the  bark  or  trim  the 

sail  than  he, 
Still  swells  within  her  heart  the  hope  he  be  not  on  the  sea. 

v. 

Too  rash  and  too  resolv'd  his  soul,  too  prone  to  rove  afar, 

To  launch  the  boat,  to  lead  the  hunt,  to  urge  the  tribe  to 
war; 

She  weeps  to  think,  to  meet  her  wish,  and  win  her  love, 
he  speeds 

Where  yellow  waters  boil  in  rage  among  the  cavern 
weeds  : 

He  promised  ere  he  left  her,  to  bring  for  her  that  day, 

The  brightest  pearl  that  ever  slept  'neath  the  gulph  of 
Urabay ; 

To  rob  the  sea-maid  of  her  shells,  and  from  the  Snake- 
God's  home, 

Tear  the  green  gem  that  lights  his  crest,  and  rend  his  crys 
tal  foam.* 

-. 

*  The  tradition  is,  that  there  is  a  great  sea  snake  of  the  Gulf,  which  the 
Indians  call  the  king  snake  or  god  snake,  whose  head  is  one  entire  eme 
rald,  which  lights  the  ocean  for  many  leagues ;  that  he  sleeps  in  a  ca 
vern  of  the  purest  crystal,  which  is  beautiful,  in  fantastic  forms,  like  the 
combing  foam  of  the  sea  when  petrified. 
9 


*  *'     »,      ' 

98  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

VI. 

The  noon-tide  hour  is  going  fast, — she  lingers  still  and 
sighs, 

For  thicker  yet  the  shadows  crowd  and  gather  on  her 
eyes; 

A  shadow  o'er  her  spirit  steals,  more  dark  and  deeply 
dread, 

Than  that  which  closes  now  in  storm  above  the  moun 
tain's  head ; 

Yet  watches  she  the  falling  wave,  and  to  her  trembling 
ears, 

A  murmur,  like  an  omen  comes — what  is  it  that  she 
hears  1 

'Tis  sure  Panaco's  voice, — but  no!  —  ah,  sweet,  delu 
sive  dream, 

'Twas  but  some  loosen'd  rock  above  that  tumbled  down 
the  stream. 

VII. 

She  knows  not  of  her  sorrow  yet, — she   chides  at  his 

delay ; 
Oh  !  would  she  thus  reproach  him,  if  she  knew  what 

made  him  stay/?  — 
Could  she  dream  that  while  she  blamed  him,  he  battled 

for  his  life, — 
Could  she  see  the  Spanish  foeman,  and  Panaco  'neath 

his  knife ! 
Alas  !  for  thee,  Acayma,  —  what  though  thy  lover  swore, 


AND    PICTURES.  99 

He  will  not  come  to  bless  thee  now, — he  lies  by  yonder 

shore ; 
And  tho'  thy  tears  were  torrents,  like  those  adown  yon 

glen, 
They  cannot  move  Panaco, — he  will  never  come  agen. 


THE  HUNTER   OF  CALAWASSEE. 


WHEN  bites,  in  bleak  November,  the  blast  that  rives  the 

tree, 
And  scatters  wide  the  yellow  leaves,  so  sweetly  sad  to 

see, 

Its  voice's  moaning  murmur,  borne  through  the  trem 
bling  wood, 
Awakes  the  heedful   hunter  up,  and  stirs  his  drowsy 

blood ;  — 
In  ancient  times  a  summons  meet,*  for  all  who  struck 

the  deer 
He  will  not  be  the  last  to  heed,  who's  still  the  first  to 

hear ; 
He  plucks  the  rifle  from  its  rest,  he  winds  the  yellow 

horn, 
And  sweet  thevmusic  of  the  sound  through  all  the  forest 

borne. 

*  The  fall  of  the  leaf,  was  always  the  signal  for  ancient  hunting. 


100  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

II. 

'Way  down  where  ghostly  cypress  and  dodder' d  oaks 

spread  free, 

By  the  winding  fen  of  Calawass,  and  on  to  Ocketee, 
The  mellow  notes  go  searching  far,  the  blood  hounds' 

bay  is  full,  — 
Shame  light  upon  that  hunter  now,  whose  bosom's  beat 

is  dull! 
There's  life   within  that  bugle  note,  steeds  snort  and 

riders  shout, 
And  life,  in  every  bound  they  take,  is  gushing  gladly 

out;  — 

A  spirit  rends  the  thicket, — upstarts  the  couchant  deer, 
Shakes  from  his   sluggish  flanks  the  dew,  and  bounds 

away  in  fear. 

in. 

"  Now  sound  your  horns,"  cried  Kedar,  "  and  let  the 
hunt  be  up, 

And  bring  me,  ere  we  start,  my  boy,  a  strong  and  stir 
ring  cup ; 

The  air  is  keen  and  searching,  and  sadly  in  my  breast, 

The  blood,  that  should  be  bounding  still,  lies  lazily  at 
rest; 

Not  long  to  rest,  for,  by  my  soul,  and  all  the  saints  !  I 
swear, 

This  day  I  perish,  or  I  kill  the  buck  that  harbors  here,-— 

That  one-horned  buck;"  —  "Nay,  swear  not  so,  dear 
master,"  thus  he  cried, 

The  aged  slave,  who  then  drew  nigh  and  stood  by  Ke 
dar 's  side. 


AND    PICTURES.  101 

IV. 

"Now,  out  upon  thy  coward  soul!"  cried  Kedar  to  the 

slave ; 
"  Thou  wast  a  man  upon  a  time,  —  my  father  thought 

thee  brave ; 

But  age  has  dull'd  thy  spirit — thy  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 
This  air's  too  keen  for  such  as  thou  —  go,  harbor  in  thy 

nest  ; 
Fool-fears  have  quell'd  thy  manhood,  and,  in  this  buck 

I  seek, 
Thou  find'st  a  foe  whose  very  name  'twould  white  thy 

lips  to  speak ; 
But  though  he  be  the  fiend  himself,  and  stand  before  my 

eyes, 
This  day  I  hunt  him  down,   I   say,  and  deer  or  hunter 

dies!" 

v. 

Then  sadly  spoke  that  aged  slave  —  "  Oh,  master,  swear 

not  so  — » 
Leave  hunting  of  this  one-horned  buck,  that's  like  no 

beast  we  know ; 
He  makes  no  slot,*  no  entry*  leaves  —  though,  through 

the  closest  brakes 
Of  bush  or  cane,  or  thicket  swamp,  his  headlong  course 

he  takes : 
Still  bears   the  same   erected  port,  and  never  frays  a 

head ; *  — 

*  Old  Lauto  is  somewhat  more  learned  in  his  terms  than  most  of  the 
drivers  of  the  southern  country ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  his  brethren, 
9* 


102  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Two  seasons  have  you  hunted  him,  and  still  with  evil 

sped  ; 
Some  grievous  chance  hath  ever  happ'd  when  on  his 

scent  we  came, 
The  first"— "Now,  fool,"  then  Kedar  cried,  "be  still, 

for  very  shame  ! 

VI. 

"  Sound  hunters,  ere  this  idle  tale  arrest  the  sluggish 
blood, 

And  lend  to  braver  hearts  than  his,  yon  aged  dotard's 
mood; 

It  is  my  oath,  this  day  to  track  that  buck  unto  his  den, 

And  we  shall  see  if  he  or  me,  shall  live  for  hunt  agen;  — 

Two  seasons  hath  he  baffled  us,  'twere  shame  if  still  he 
may, 

And  I  am  sworn,  and  heed  my  oath,  to  end  the  toil  to 
day; 

And  Lauto,  you  shall  stay  behind  —  I  would  not  have 
you  drive, 

some  little  explanation  may  be  given  here.  These  are  all  terms  of  the 
chase  in  ancient  English  hunting ;  and  are  furnished  to  me,  at  second 
hand,  from  Gascoigne's  "  commendation  of  the  noble  arte  of  venerie." 
The  dot  is  the  print  of  a  stag's  foot  upon  the  ground;  entries  are 
places  through  which  deer  have  lately  passed,  by  which  their  size  is 
conjectured ;  frayings  are  the  pillings  of  their  horns ;  and  a  deer  is 
said  to  "  fray  a  head"  when  he  rubs  it  against  a  tree  to  cause  the  outer 
coat  to  fall  away  in  the  season  of  renewal.  These  nice  traits  of  the 
hunt,  by  which  the  hunter  learns  all  that  is  desirable  to  know  of  the 
game  he  seeks,  form,  however,  but  a  small  number  of  those  in  the  col 
lection  of  the  experienced  in  this  "  noble  arte." 


AND    PICTURES.  103 

If  such  the  fears  that  fill  your  heart,  the  hunt  can  never 
thrive." 


VII. 

"  I'll  go,  my  master,"  cried  the  slave,  with  sorrow  in  his 

tone, 
"  If  fears  are  in  old  Lauto's  heart,  they're  fears  for  you 

alone ; 

Here  Willow,  "Wand,  and  Wallow,"  —  three  dogs  of  fa 
mous  breed, 
That  had  a  boast,  from  Hollo's  pack,  the  Norman's,  to 

be  seed :  — 
He  sounded  then   most   cheerily,  that   aged  slave,  and 

cried, 
'Till,  from  the  kennel,  all  the  pack,  came  bounding  to  his 

side  ; 
He  took  the  route  his  master  bade,  and  with  a  heavy 

heart, 
That  shook  with  fears  he  could  not  name,  did  Lauto  then 

depart. 


viii.  v/0^ 

'Twas  standing  in  a  cypress  grove,  that,  by  the  Ocketee, 
Kept  crowding  shadows  that  forbade  the  searching  eye 

to  see, 

Young  Kedar  waited  long  to  hear  the  music  of  the  hounds, 
That  told  the  hunt  was  up,  and  filled   the  wood  with 

cheering  sounds  ; 


104  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

No  sound  he  heard,  yet,  on  his  sight,  that  one-horn'd  deer 

arose, 

As  speeding  on,  he  left  behind,  in  secret,  all  his  foes  :  — 
"  But  me  he  shall  not  baffle  thus,"  cried  Kedar   as  he 

came  — 
And  lifting  up  his  rifle  then,  he  stood  with  ready  aim. 

IX. 

Three   strides  the  buck  hath  taken,  his  single  horn  on 

high, 
And  then  he  stayed  his  forward  flight,  and  looked  with 

steady  eye  ; 

He  looked  upon  the  cypress  grove  where  Kedar  watch 
ing  stood, 
Then,   turning,  took   his  easy  way  toward  the  distant 

wood. 
This  madden'd  Kedar  then  to  see,  and  to  his  steed  he 

gave 
Free  rein  and  rashing  spur,  and  went  as  if  some  devil 

drave ; 
With  shriek  and  shout  he  bounded  on,  and  wonder'd  to 

behold, 
How  easy  was  the  gait  he  went,  that  deer,  along  the  wold. 


x. 


And  still  nor  horn  nor  hound  he  heard,  and  nothing  did 

he  see, 
Save  that  one  deer  that,  fleeing,  seem'd,  as  not  to  care  to 

flee  ; 


AND    PICTURES.  105 

This  vex'd  young  Kedar  to  behold  —  a  madness  filled  his 

blood, 
And  shouting  as  he  went,  he  flew,  with  fury  through  the 

wood; 
He  heeded  not  for  stop  or  stay  —  he  looked  not  once 

behind, 
His  soul  was  in  that  fearful  chase — his  spirit  on  the 

wind  ;  — 
A  twilight   shade  came  o'er  the  earth,  and  through  the 

wood  a  moan, 
Yet  nothing  did  he  see  or  hear,  but  that  one  deer  alone ! 

XI. 

The  cypress  groves  he  leaves  behind,  where,  with  impa 
tient  heart, 
Three  goodly  hours  he  watch'd  that  day,  from  all  the 

rest  apart ; 
The  long  pines  gather  round  him  now,  and  now  the 

thicket  stays, 
Yet  on,  with  headlong  haste,  he  goes,  through  wild  and 

rugged  ways ;  — 
The  deer,  still  wooing  as  he  wends,  keeps  ever  in  his 

sight, 
Yet   indirect   his   forward   course,    as    careless   still   of 

flight;  — 
More  furious  grew  that  hunter  then,  to  see  his  mocking 

pace, 
And  feel  at  last,  his  noble  steed  was  failing  in  the  race. 


106  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

XII. 

No  warning  sign  like  this  he  heeds,  but  with  his  oath  in 

mind, 
Young  Kedar,  in  that  keen  pursuit,  is  striving  with  the 

wind  ; 

The  rowel  tears  his  charger's  flanks  until  they  glisten  red, 
The  thong  now  smites  his  burning  sides   and  now  his 

aching  head ; 
Yet  docile  still,  in  all  his  pain,  though  fainting  with  the 

chase, 
He  strives,  that  noble  beast,  to  keep,  unfailing,  in  the 

race ; 
The  madness  grows   in  Kedar's   soul,   and  blinds   his 

thought  and  will, 
Such  madness  as  must  vex  the  heart  of  him  that's  doom'd 

to  ill. 


XIII. 

And  he  that  has  no  eye  to  see  his  weary  charger's  pain, 

As  little  heeds  the  baffling  wood  through  which  his  feet 
must  strain ; 

The  giant  pines  have  faded  far  —  the  knotted  thicket 
shakes 

Its  purple  berries  round  his  brow  at  every  bound  he 
takes  ; 

The  swamp  is  nigh,  the  horse's  hoofs  in  ooze  are  plash 
ing  fast, 

God  save  him,  if  he  mean  to  save — such  chase  can 
never  last ! 


AND    PICTURES.  107 

The  river's  edge  is  nigh,  and  dusk,  its  solemn  shadows 

rise, 
And  what  a  heavy  silence  hangs  and  broods  along  the 

skies. 


xiv. 

Before  him  sleeps  the  sluggish  swamp  that  never  sees 

the  day, 
And  through  its  bosom,  bounding  on,  the  deer  still  keeps 

his  way ; 
Another    leap   he    gains   the   stream  —  another     effort 

more  — 
And  deeply  in  the  charger's  flanks,  the  rashing  rowel 

tore  ;  — 
A  sound  is  in  young  Kedar's  ears  —  his  hounds  are  close 

behind  — 
And  'tis  old   Lauto's  cry  that  cheers  upon  that  sudden 

wind ;  — 

A  warning  cry  that  vainly  seeks  to  drive  the  spell  away, 
And  check  the  fiend  that  lies  in  wait  and  hungers  for  his 

prey. 

xv. 

Mad  shouts  from  Kedar  answered  then  old  Lauto's  kind 
ly  cry,— 

"  Ha !  ha!  I  have  him  now !"  was  still  the  hunter's  wild 
reply; 

"I  have  him  now  —  that  one-horned  buck  —  our  path 
lies  fair  and  free, 


108  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

He  sinks — he  can  no  farther  run  —  he  lies  by  yonder 

tree  ;  — 
Upon   him,  Cygnet  !  —  he  is  ours — one   goodly  effort 

more, 
By  death  and  all  the  saints,  he's  mine ! — ha!    ha!    our 

hunt  is  o'er!" 
And  still  the  noble  steed  obeys,  and  through  the  swamp 

he  goes, — 
The  swamp  is  past,  and,  round  his  feet,  the  dark  Che- 

che-see  flows. 

XVI. 

The  dark  Che-che-see  flows^along,  in  tribute  to  the  main, 

But  stops  not  Kedar's  rash  pursuit — he  spurs  his  steed 
again  ; 

And  breathing  hard,  the  patient  steed  now  takes  the 
gloomy  stream, 

While  roll'd  the  thunder  cloud  above,  and  sunk  the  west 
ering  gleam. 

Old  Lauto  reach'd  the  river's  edge,  with  dim  and  strain 
ing  eye, 

And  something  like  a  struggling  steed,  a  moment  did 
he  spy ; 

But  soon  the  waters  closed  above — he  look'd  beyond, 
and  there, 

Still  went,  a  failing  shadow  now,  with  easy  pace,  the 
deer! 


AND    PICTURES.  109 


TO    MY    WIFE    IN    ABSENCE. 

Oh,  wert  thou  but  beside  me  now, 

Yon  cold  and  cheerless  moon  would  be 

A  high  and  purely  passing  brow, 

That  I  should  joy  to  watch  with  thee. 

With  thee  to  smile,  with  thee  to  cheer, 
To  soothe  and  bless  my  struggling  heart, 

This  weary  night  would  disappear, 
For  all  is  happy  where  thou  art. 

A  thousand  promised  joys  should  rise, 
In  thought  and  memory,  blessing  still ; 

And  from  thy  bright,  yet  dewy  eyes, 
The  fountains  of  mine  own  should  fill. 

And  that  dear  pledge  !  — to  me  how  dear, 
Since  first  its  budding  lips  became, 

A  smile  to  charm,  a  tone  to  cheer 

Each  trembling  feeling  of  my  frame  : — - 

Around  my  neck  her  clasping  hands 
Like  blooming  tendrils  round  the  tree, 

A  festive  wreath  of  freshest  bands 

That  hide  the  roughness  none  should  see. 

To  mark  her  growth,  and,  day  by  day, 
Behold  her  infant  mind  unclose, 
10 


110 


SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 


To  trim  the  light,  protect  the  ray, 
Defend  the  bud,  and  love  the  rose. 

Month  after  month,  and  year  by  year, 
To  trace  her  being's  rapid  growth, 

A  father's  jo^y,  a  mother's  care, 

The  blessing  and  the  pride  of  both. 

Ah !  more  than  sweet  is  every  dream 
My  fond  and  fervent  fancy  brings — 

A  wooing  breath,  a  winning  gleam 
Of  pure  and  most  delightful  things. 

Fair  images,  that,  seen  before, 

Like  angel  memories  will  not  part, 

And  hold  their  kind  dominion  o'er, 
My  weary,  and  o'er  burthen'd  heart. 

Oh,  come  to  me,  for  when  thou'rt  gone, 
My  spirit  sad,  nor  longer  free, 

Finds  nature  dull,  and  cities  lone, 

And  looks  in  vain,  and  weeps,  for  thee. 


TO    MY    WIFE    AT    PARTING. 

Pray  for  me,  at  the  morning  and  at  eve, 

When,  downward,  lingering,  goes  the  mellowed  sun, 


AND    PICTURES.  Ill 

Utter  thy  prayer  that  he  may  always  leave 
A  smile,  a  promise,  for  the  wandering  one. 

Pray  for  me,  though,  perchance,  with  mood  Jike  mine, 

Forever  wayward,  wild,  and  obstinate, 
All  prayers  be  unavailing — ay,  even  thine  — 

Pray  still,  and  I  shall  not  be  desolate. 

My  heart  shall  fancy  in  the  pleasant  breeze, 
That  gathers  in  the  tree  tops,  there's  a  tone, 

Sweet,  sad — like  that  which  comes  o'er  moaning  seas, 
Which  thou  dost  send  to  cheer  the  wandering  one. 

And  when  I  lay  me  on  my  noonday  bed, 

'Neath  the  broad  foliage  of  the  summer  vine, 

I'll  deem  the  spirit  watching  at  my  head, 
The  spirit  that  has  waited  long  on  thine. 

Sweet  heart !  oh,  never  yet  bloom'd  sweeter  heart — 
Pray  for  me,  and  the  desert  world  and  wild, 

Shall  offer  tendance,  and  with  gentlest  art, 

Most  heedful  of  thy  prayer,  shall  bless  their  child. 

Sweet  airs  shall  be  around  me,  and  though  men, 

Not  knowing  well,  have  wronged  me — blest  by  thee, 

The  elements  shall  all  look  kindlier  then, 

And  doubly  grant  the  boon  thou  begg'st  for  me. 


112  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 


FLIGHT    TO    NATURE. 

Sick  of  the  crowd,  the  toil,  the  strife, 
Sweet  nature  !  now  I  turn  to  thee, 

Seeking  for  renovated  life, 

By  brawling  brook  and  shady  tree. 

I  knew  thy  rocks  had  spells  of  old, 
To  turn  the  wanderer's  wo  to  calm, 

And  in  thy  waters,  clear  and  cold, 
My  heated  brow  would  seek  its  balm. 

I  bent  beneath  thy  ancient  oak, 

And  sought  for  slumber  in  its  shade, 

And,  as  the  clouds  above  me  broke, 
I  dream'd  to  find  the  pray'r  I  made. 

For  light,  a  blessed  light,  was  given, 
Far  streaming  round  me  from  above, 

And  in  the  deep,  deep  vaults  of  heaven, 
I  saw  a  look  of  peace  and  love. 

And  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 
When  every  bird  was  on  its  wing, 

I  sought  amid  thy  thousand  flowers, 
The  sweet  renewal  of  life's  spring. 

That  sacred  freshness  of  the  heart, 

That  made  the  tide  of  youth  so  strong, 


AND    PICTURES.  :   .       113 

When,  yet  untaught  by  shame  or  art, 
We  fear'd  no  guile  and  knew  no  wrong, 

My  soul  grew  young  in  early  dreams, 
And  'gainst  each  selfish  lure  I  strove, 

Most  glad  to  yield  up  human  schemes, 
For  one  pure,  boyish  hour  of  love. 

And  who  but  nature's  self  could  yield 
The  boon  I  sought,  the  pray'r  I  made, 

Throned  in  her  realm  of  wood  and  field, 
Of  rocky  realm  and  haunted  shade.  — 

Who,  but  that  magic  queen,  whose  sway 

Drives  winter  from  his  path  of  strife, 
While  all  her  thousand  fingers  play, 
With  bud  and  bird,  in  games  of  life  1 

I  turn'd  to  her — yet  turn'd  in  vain  — 

A  hopeless  discontent  I  bear  j 
I  snap,  at  each  remove,  a  chain, 

Yet  never  snap  the  chain  I  wear, 

Yet  if  the  wizard  be,  whose  power 

May  set  my  heart  and  passions  free, 
And  still  restore  youth's  perish'd  flower, 

And  hope's  gay  season,  thou  art  she. 

A  kindred  life  with  these  I  ask, 

Not  beauty,  nor  the  pomp  we  seek, 
10* 


114  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

But  in  the  sunshine  let  me  bask, 
My  heart  as  glowing  as  my  cheek. 

An  idle  heart,  that  would  not  heed 
The  chiding  voice  of  duty,  come 

To  take  the  soul,  new  nerved  and  freed, 
Back  to  close  cell  and  gloomy  room. 

Thou,  nature,  that  magician  be, 

Give  me  the  old  time  peace,  the  joy 

That  warm'd  my  heart,  and  set  me  free, 
A  wild,  but  not  a  wayward,  boy. 

Arid  I  will  bless  thee  with  a  song, 
As  fond  as  hers,  that  idle  bird, 

That  sings  above  me  all  day  long, 
As  if  she  knew  I  watch' d  and  heard. 


EVENING    BY    THE    SEA-SHORE. 

How,  with  a  spell  of  sweetness  all  her  own, 

The  bright-eyed  evening  hallows  the  broad  land  - 

She  rises  like  a  sovereign  to  her  throne  ; 

Earth  sleeps  —  the  waters  murmur  on  the  strand 

A  breathing  calm,  descending  from  the  skies, 

Wraps  her  wide  realm  in  happy  harmonies. 


AND    PICTURES.  115 

There  is  no  ruder  breath  than  stirs  the  flowers, 
Winning  their  proffer'd  odor  —  earth  and  air, 

The  sea,  even  down  among  its  coral  bowers, 
Seen  through  the  perilous  waters  —  all  is  fair ; 

God's  spirit,  like  a  blessing  charm  abroad, 

Subdues  the  strife,  unveils  the  works  of  God. 

The  little  wave  that  breaks  upon  the  shore, 
Hath  brought  a  gentle  promise  from  the  deep ; 

Its  strifes  at  rest,  its  angry  terrors  o'er, 

It  feels  the  calm  of  brightness  o'er  it  creep  — 

Shares  in  the  kindred  blessing  of  the  skies, 

And  hallow'd  like  the  land,  in  holy  sweetness  lies. 

The  winds  that  travelled  on  its  breast  all  night, 

And  rock'd  their  own  wide  cradle  till  they  slept, 
Have  caught  up  sweetest  odors  in  their  flight, 

From  the  fair  Haytien  groves  —  their  wings  have  swept 
Fruit  forests,  where  the  golden  tribute  grows 
Unheeded,  and  in  vain  its  wealth  bestows. 

•"jfc  ..-•  •  j  jjjT-ii  ii'Li;!-' 

What  tidings  doth  such  mournful  truth  convey 

Of  savage  and  regardless  nature  there  — 
Still,  the  wild  man,  untutored  to  obey, 

Makes  foul  the  realm  that  heaven  hath  made  most  fair: 
The  heart  that  is  not  gentle  hath  no  eyes 
For  nature,  and  regards  no  harmonies. 

His  mood  is  in  the  dark  —  he  loves  the  night 
Only  in  stormy  aspects  —  skies  to  him, 


116  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Which  God  hath  soothed  with  sweetness,  give  no  light, 

And  the  fair  moon  is  but  a  presence  dim  — 
The  song  of  winds  from  the  far-heaving  sea, 
Speaks  not  to  him  the  tones  of  fond  humanity. 

Ah  !  sweet  their  voices  in  my  yielding  breast, 

The  murmur  rises  there  —  the  mood  is  strong  — 

There  is  a  hope  that  will  not  be  represt, 

The  strifes  of  man  will  cease,  and  human  wrong, 

Be  but  the  story  of  a  savage  race, 

That  lived  without  the  thought  or  means  of  grace. 

I  see  it  in  the  picture  round  me  spread  — 

Earth  linked  with  heaven  —  old  ocean  won  to  calm, 

And  smooth,  as  fitted  for  an  angel's  tread, 

Winds  musical,  and  breathing  airs^  of  balm  — 

And  the  rude  passions  in  my  soul,  they  rest,  — 

There  is  not  now  a  wrong  within  my  breast. 

I  do  forgive  mine  ancient  enemy, 

I  would  that  he  were  nigh  to  hear  my  pray'r;  — 
God's  light  be  shining  now  upon  his  eye, 

God's  blessed  voice  in  mercy  in  his  ear  ;  — 
Hath  he  a  child  —  may  she  be  blest,  as  he 
Would  ever  wish  his  latest  born  to  be. 

These  winds  have  mercy  in  them — they  have  come 
From  happy  coasts,  where  sickness  never  dwells  — 

They  rouse  my  freshen'd  spirit  into  bloom  — 

My  thought  expands —  my  soul  in  triumph  swells; 

And  oh,  how  gladly  would  I  now  impart 

To  all,  these  raptures  rising  in  my  heart. 


AND    PICTURES.  117 

The  affections  that  have  slumber'd  in  the  strife, 
Sweet  charities,  that  human  strifes  subdue, 

And  virtues,  that  man  seldom  keeps  through-  life, 
Return  once  more,  and  prove  our  nature  true  : 

Still  may  the  soul  its  highest  hope  maintain, 

Since  such  as  these  come  back  to  strengthen  it  again. 

The  very  silence  that  now  spreads  around 

Its  dewy  and  ethereal  wing,  appears 
Like  some  sweet  minister,  whose  plaintive  sound, 

Wins  to  imploring  calm,  th'  obedient  spheres, — 
And  in  its  pure  divinity  o'erawes 
The  ruder  atom  which  would  break  their  laws. 

Oh,  peerless  eve,  sail  on,  and  if  there  be 

One  dwelling  of  earth's  children,  where  the  war 

Still  wages,  let  them  thy  blest  features  see  — 
Make  them  as  gentle  as  those  features  are  : 

Could  they  but  turn  from  earthly  gain,  ah,  well, 

And  very  soon,  indeed,  their  hearts  should  feel  thy  spell. 


MORNING  IN   THE   FOREST. 


The  voices  of  the  forest !  Hear  the  tale, 

Whispered  at  moments  by  the  fitful  breeze, 
That,  sighing  with  a  sweet  and  soothing  wail, 


118  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Makes  sweetest  music  with  the  tall  old  trees ; 
And  blends,  with  feeling  of  the  dawning  hour, 
Musings  of  solemn  thought  and  saddest  power. 


Such  was  the  birth,  the  mother-birth,  which  sung 
The  morning  of  creation  :  —  even  so  strange, 

The  first,  fresh  accents  of  the  infant  tongue 

Of  nature,  moaning  through  her  varied  range  — 

Wild  in  her  desert  loneliness  of  place, 

Ere  yet  she  knew  her  last  and  noblest  race. 


in. 

Thus  moan'd  the  winds  among  the  giant  trees 
That  had  no  other  homage  —  thus,  from  far, 

Came  the  deep  voices  of  the  sullen  seas, 

Striving  'gainst  earth,  and  with  themselves  at  war ; 

Night  craved  the  sun,  and  chaos  from  her  keep 

Groan'd  with  the  feeling  of  her  growing  sleep. 

IV. 

And,  in  the  language  of  their  infant  lack, 

They  tell  their  story  with  each  rising  dawn ; 

You  hear  them  when  the  hour  is  cold  and  black, 
Ere  yet  the  feet  of  day  imprint  the  lawn  ; 

When  the  faint  streakings  of  the  light  are  seen, 

O'er  eastern  heights,  through  darkest  groves  of  green. 


AND    PICTURES.  119 

V. 

Each  day  renews  the  birth  of  thousand  days 

Even  from  the  dawn  of  time  :  —  even  now  I  see, 

Amid  the  gloom  that  gathers  on  my  gaze, 

Gray  distant  gleams  that  shoot  up  momently  — 

And  hark  !  a  sudden  voice  —  the  voice  of  might, 

That  hail'd,  from  infant  life,  the  blessing  birth  of  light. 

VI. 

The  morning  grows  around  me  !  Shafts  of  gray, 
Like  sudden  arrows  from  the  eastern  bow, 

Rise,  through  the  distant  forests,  to  a  ray, 

And  light  the  heavens,  and  waken  earth  below ;  — 

The  rill  that  murmur'd  sadly,  now  sings  out, 

Leaping,  through  trembling  leaves,  with  free  and  glad 
some  shout. 


VII. 

I  see  a  glitter  on  yon  glossy  leaf 

Where  hangs  a  silent  dew-drop.     Hark  !  a  bird, 
Shrieks  out,  as  if  he  felt  some  sudden  grief, 

His  sleep,  perchance,  by  dream  of  danger  stirr'd  : 
Wings  rustle  in  the  thicket  —  other  eyes, 
Behold,  where  ray  on  ray,  the  wings  of  morning  rise. 

>.J<xft  srJ^oig  SiiJ  l/m;cri  Jjfv 
vm. 

And  now  the  dawn,  with  eye  of  glancing  gray, 
Comes  singing  into  sight.     The  trees  stand  forth, 


120  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

As  singly  striving  for  her  brightest  ray  ; 

And  countless  voices  from  the  awak'ning  earth, 
Clamor  full-throated  joys  :  —  a  flapping  wing, 
Prepares,  in  yonder  copse,  to  take  his  morning  spring. 

•••  Uffnrrfo^r  ryr  *r--^>  fncfl  sm^f>l'3  n'n'~ri'>  T 
IX. 

A  sudden  life  is  round  me  with  the  light, 
Voices  and  wings  are  in  the  woods  and  air ; 

Broad  vistas  open  to  my  travelling  sight, 

And  hills  arise,  and  valleys,  wondrous  fair — 

Even  while  I  gaze,  a  sudden  shaft  of  fire 

Makes  yon  tall  pine  blaze  up,  like  some  proud  city  spire. 

x. 

Oh,  beautiful !  most  beautiful ! — the  things 
I  see  around  me  ; — lovelier  still  to  thought, 

The  fancies,  welling  from  a  thousand  springs, 
The  presence  of  these  images  hath  brought ; 

The  visions  of  the  past  were  mine  this  hour, 

And  in  my  heart  the  pride  of  an  o'ermastering  power  — 

XI. 

A  power  that  could  create,  and  from  the  dead 
Draw  life  and  gather  accents.     There  are  spells, 

Known  to  the  unerring  thought,  which  freely  shed 
Light  round  the  groping  footstep,  when  rebels 

The  o'er-cautious  reason,  and  the  instinct  fear, 

Shrinks  from  its  own  huge  shadow — they  are  here  ! 
,rfj  jot  bfusto  asfji'U  5>dT     .irfgh  oJnr  ^mgap*  gdaioO 


AND    PICTURES.  121 

xn. 

This  is  a  spot  —  if  there  have  ever  been, 

As  ancient  story  tells  in  legends  sooth, 
Such  forms  as  are  not  earthly,  earthward  seen, 

Having  strange  shapes  of  beauty  and  of  youth, 
Then  do  I  ween  that  this  should  be  the  spot 
Where  they  should  come,  —  and  yet,  I  see  them  not. 

XIII. 

Yet  have  I  prayed  their  presence  with  a  tongue 
Of  song,  and  a  warm  fancy  that  could,  take, 

From  many-voiced  expression,  as  she  sung, 
Her  winged  words  of  music,  and  awake 

True  echoes  of  her  strain  to  win  my  quest, 

And  woo  the  coming  of  each  spirit-guest. 

XIV. 

Yet  have  they  come  not,  though  my  willing  thought 
Grew  captive  to  my  wild  and  vain  desire ; 

And  in  my  heart  meet  pliancy  was  wrought, 
To  raise  the  forms,  in  seeming,  I  require ;  — 

And  in  this  truant  worship  I  bow'd  down, 

Since  first  night's  shadows  fell  and  made  the  forests 
brown. 

xv. 

And  sure  no  fitter  spot  had  spirit  sought, 

For  the  soft-falling  of  star-pacing  feet ; 
This  is  the  holiest  wood,  with  flowers  inwrought, 

Having  fresh  odors  of  most  heavenly  sweet  j 
11 


122  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Nor,  in  the  daylight's  coming,  then,  do  these 
Cathedral  shadows  fly,  that  lurk  behind  the  trees. 

XVI. 

The  wild-beast  burrows  not  beneath  our  hill, 

Nor  hide  these  leaves  one  serpent.     Gentlest  doves 

Brood  in  the  pines  at  evening,  seldom  still, 

With  murmur  through  the  night,  of  innocent  loves  : 

And  I  have  shaken,  with  no  boyish  trust, 

From  my  own  human  feet,  the  base  and  selfish  dust. 

XVII. 

And  fancy  hath  been  with  me,  to  beguile 
The  stubborn  reason  into  faith,  and  show 

The  subtle  shapes,  from  fairy-land  that  while, 
In  gamesome  dance,  the  wasted  hours  below ; 

Meet  lawn  of  green  and  purple,  here  is  spread, 

By  nature's  liberal  hand,  for  fay's  fantastic  tread. 

XVIII. 

And  memories  of  old  song,  the  solemn  strains 
Of  bards  that  gave  themselves  to  holiest  thought, 

And  gloried  in  their  wild,  poetic  pains, 

Were  in  my  heart,  and  my  wrapt  soul  was  fraught 

With  faith  in  what  they  feigned,  until  my  blood 

Grew  tremulously  strong  beneath  my  hopeful  mood. 

XIX. 

And  when  the  dark  hours  came,  the  twiring  stars 
Seem'd  eyes,  that  darted  on  me  keenest  fires  j 


AND    PICTURES.  ,  123 

Earth  had  her  voice,  and  promised,  through  her  bars, 

To  burst  the  bondage  set  on  free  desires  — 
And  not  a  breath  that  stirr'd  the  flowers,  but  seem'd 
The  shadowy  whisper  from  some  shape  I  dream'd. 

xx. 

Yet  vainly  have  I  waited  !  —  not  in  vain  ! 

What  though  no  fairy  won  me  with  her  song, 
And  beckoning  finger  —  'twas  a  nobler  strain 

That  struck  the  ear  of  thought,  and  fill'd  it  long : 
A  mightier  presence  yet  my  soul  o'eraw'd  — 
He  was  beside  me  : — I  had  been  with  God  ! 


THE    SHADED    WATER. 

WHEN  that  my  mood  is  sad,  and  in  the  noise 
And  bustle  of  the  crowd,  I  feel  rebuke, 

I  turn  my  footsteps  from  its  hollow  joys, 
And  sit  me  down  beside  this  little  brook  : 

The  waters  have  a  music  to  mine  ear 

It  glads  me  much  to  hear. 

It  is  a  quiet  glen  as  you  may  see, 

Shut  in  from  all  intrusion  by  the  trees, 

That  spread  their  giant  branches,  broad  and  free, 
The  silent  growth  of  many  centuries ; 


124  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  make  a  hallowed  time  for  hapless  moods, 
A  sabbath  of  the  woods. 

Few  know  its  quiet  shelter,  —  none,  like  me, 

Do  seek  it  out  with  such  a  fond  desire, 
Poring,  in  idlesse  mood,  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  listening,  as  the  voiceless  leaves  respire,  — 
When  the  far  travelling  breeze,  done  wandering, 
Rests  here  his  weary  wing. 

And  all  the  day,  with  fancies  ever  new, 

And  sweet  companions  from  their  boundless  store, 

Of  merry  elves,  bespangled  all  with  dew, 
Fantastic  creatures  of  the  old  time  lore,  — 

Watching  their  wild  but  unobtrusive  play, 

I  fling  the  hours  away. 

A  gracious  couch,  —  the  root  of  an  old  oak, 
Whose  branches  yield  it  moss  and  canopy,  — - 

Is  mine  —  and  so  it  be  from  woodman's  stroke 
Secure,  shall  never  be  resigned  by  me  ; 

It  hangs  above  the  stream  that  idly  plies, 

Heedless  of  any  eyes. 

There,  with  eye  sometimes  shut,  but  upward  bent, 
Sweetly  I  muse  through  many  a  quiet  hour, 

While  every  sense,  on  earnest  mission  sent, 

Returns,  thought-laden,  back  with  bloom  and  flower ; 

Pursuing,  though  rebuked  by  those  who  moil, 

A  profitable  toil. 


AND    PICTURES.  125 

And  still  the  waters,  trickling  at  my  feet, 
Wind  on  their  way  with  gentlest  melody, 

Yielding  sweet  music,  which  the  leaves  repeat, 
Above  them,  to  the  gay  breeze  gliding  by,  — 

Yet  not  so  rudely  as  to  send  one  sound 

Through  the  thick  copse  around. 

Sometimes  a  brighter  cloud  than  all  the  rest 

Hangs  o'er  the  archway  opening  through  the  trees, 

Breaking  the  spell,  that,  like  a  slumber,  press'd 
On  my  worn  spirit  its  sweet  luxuries,  — 

And,  with  awakened  vision  upward  bent, 

I  watch  the  firmament. 

How  like  —  its  sure  and  undisturb'd  retreat, 
Life's  sanctuary  at  last,  secure  from  storm  — 

To  the  pure  waters  trickling  at  my  feet, 

The  bending  trees  that  overshade  my  form  ; 

So  far  as  sweetest  things  of  earth  may  seem 

Like  those  of  which  we  dream. 

Thus,  to  my  mind,  i&  the  philosophy 

The  young  bird  teaches,  who,  with  sudden  flight, 
Sails  far  into  the  blue  that  spreads  on  high, 

Until  I  lose  him  from  my  straining  sight,  — 
With  a  most  lofty  discontent,  to  fly, 
Upward,  from  earth  to  sky. 


11* 


126  SOUTHERN  PASSAGES 


THE  APPROACH  OF  THE  PESTILENCE. 


LET  those  who  will  with  anxious  dread 

The  coming  danger  still  deplore, 
And  with  dark  boding  fancies  fed, 

View  all  with  fear  that  fills  our  shore. 
Though  not  less  fond  of  life  than  they, 

And  warmed  by  many  a  glowing  hope, 
Let  me,  in  calm,  the  plague  survey, 

And  with  each  threat'ning  terror  cope. 

ii. 

Let  me  not  watch,  with  idle  fears, 

Long  in  advance,  the  approaching  doom, 
And,  before  death  himself  appears, 

Prepare  the  shroud  and  build  the  tomb  — 
But,  with  a  heart  securely  calm, 

Still  on  that  Providence  rely, 
Which,  if  it  blights,  still  brings  its  balm, 

And  strengthens,  though  it  bids  us  die. 

HI. 

Still  let  me  hold  to  that  high  truth, 
The  best  that  God  to  man  hath  given, 

To  cheer  in  age,  to  teach  in  youth, 
There  is  no  certain  hope  but  heaven. 


AND    PICTURES.  127 

And  if  I  fall,  and  if  the  fate 

That  strikes  the  thousand,  strikes  at  me, 
And  makes  my  fireside  desolate, 

And  blights  the  bud  and  blasts  the  tree  ;  — 

IV. 

And  from  my  fond  affection  rends 

The  child  that  still  my  heart  has  blest, 
And  robs  my  eye  of  many  friends, 

At  least  'twill  give  them  peace  and  rest. 
And  though  the  fate  thus  comes,  'twill  be 

But  the  same  fate  we  still  should  meet, 
When  time  has  brought  infirmity,  — 

Without  restraint,  without  retreat. 

v. 

A  few  years  lopt  the  human  lot 

Will  only  lose  us  years  of  care, 
Affection's  blight,  and  memory's  blot, 

And  hope's  defeat,  and  love's  despair — 
A  fate  no  human  skill  can  foil, 

No  place  avert,  no  care  evade  — 
A  fate  that  brings  release  from  toil, 

And  yields  us  mansions  heavenly  made. 

VI. 

Father  !  thus  lesson'd,  let  my  soul, 

In  calm  the  coming  stroke  await  ; 
Yet,  do  thou  still  the  plague  control, 

And  lengthen  life,  and  limit  fate — 


128  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  bid  the  stricken  sufferer  live, 
And  bid  the  city  smile,  and  take 

The  curse  away,  the  crime  forgive, 
For  weeping  nature's,  mercy's  sake. 


A   LAST   PRAYER. 


SWEET  be  the  laughing  skies  around, 

And  sunny  flow'rs  be  seen, 
And  let  a  carpet  strew  the  ground 

Of  summer's  richest  green  — 
Thus,  when  the  weary  strife  is  o'er, 

Should  still  our  parting  be  ; 
I  would  not  have  one  heart  deplore 

When  it  remembers  me. 

ii. 

Lay  me  in  pleasant  earth's  embrace 

Wlien  all  things  smile  around, 
When  eyes  of  gentleness  may  trace 

Sweet  blossoms  on  the  ground  — 
When  merriest  birds  delight  to  sing, 

And  chirping  insects  swell 
A  gracious  note  of  early  spring, 

O'er  the  spot  wherein  I  dwelL 


AND    PICTURES.  129 

III. 

Not  that,  when  slumbering  in  its  shade, 

My  'wildered  soul  may  dream, 
That  I  shall  hear  one  cricket's  chirp, 

Or  wandering  mock  bird's  scream  ; 
But,  at  a  time  when  all  are  glad, 

If  the  dead  may  solaced  be, 
I  would  be  sure,  if  aught  was  sad, 

It  was  not  so  through  me. 

IV. 

I  would  not  have  a  stone  to  mark 

The  place  of  my  repose, 
Nor,  chronicled  in  clumsy  verse, 

The  story  of  my  woes  — 
My  virtues,  such  as  are  my  own, 

In  some  true  heart  will  bloom — 
My  vices,  when  I'm  dead  and  gone, 

Should  moulder  in  my  tomb. 

v. 

There  let  the  summer's  leaflets  blow, 

And  blossom  'neath  the  morn, 
And  primrose  buds  and  daisies  grow, 

The  moment  spring  is  born  — 
And  let  the  hours,  a  sweet  serene, 

Around  my  dwelling  throng — 
While  birds  and  bees,  with  vocal  hum, 

Make  merry  all  with  song. 


130  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

VI. 

And  if  in  life  there  be  one  heart 

That  song  or  speech  of  mine, 
Counselled  by  erring  sympathies, 

Hath  tutored  to  repine  — 
Let  not  that  gentle  heart  upbraid, 

With  eye  or  aspect  dim, 
The  father  of  the  wayward  verse, 

When  it  remembers  him. 

VII. 

Or,  if  the  latest  prayer  be  vain, 

And  some  fond  heart  shall  weep, 
And  pour  above  his  grave  a  strain 

Of  memories,  sad  and  deep  ; 
Let  the  tear  fall  in  loneliness, 

I  would  not  crowds  should  see, 
The  dear,  but  silent  intercourse, 

Such  heart  shall  hold  with  me. 


SHADOWS. 


THE  night  is  wild,  but  sweet  to  me 
The  uncertain  music  that  it  brings ; 


AND    PICTURES.  131 

And,  o'er  the  darkly  heaving  sea, 

I  hear  the  rushing  might  of  wings :  — 

That  wailing  wo  that  seems  to  brood 
Along  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

Wakes  in  my  soul  a  kindred  mood, 
And  I  must  watch,  and  may  not  sleep. 

ii. 

Let  me  but  muse, —  and  with  no  sound, 

Save  that  which  sleepless  ocean  bears, 
To  break  the  silence  settling  round, 

And  vex  my  sense,  and  check  my  tears ;  — 
Be  but  this  hour  of  gloom  my  own, 

Give  but  my  bosom's  mood  its  way, 
And,  with  my  wayward  thoughts  alone, 

Let  memory  have  her  holy  sway. 

in. 

A  thousand  shadows  cross  my  sight, 

A  thousand  voices  fill  mine  ears ; 
Eyes,  perish'd  now,  that  once  were  bright, 

Crowd,  gathering  round  me,  dim  with  tears ! 
Ghosts  of  a  former  day,  they  come, 

With  thousand  fancies  dear  as  they ; 
They  lift  me  high,  they  bear  me  home, — 

I  'm  in  the  morning  of  the  day  ! 

IV. 

The  roaring  of  the  sea  is  still, 

The  wind  is  music,  as,  when  first, 


132  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

By  Alton's  wave  and  Oran's  hill, 
On  childhood's  eager  ear,  it  burst : 

No  more  a  wanderer  on  the  deep, 
A  homeless,  hopeless  child  of  care, 

Eyes  watch  me  now,  with  pride  that  weep, 
And  sweetest  lips  proclaim  me  dear. 

v. 

A  word  has  brought  them  all  once  more  — 

The  white-hair'd  sire,  the  brother  tall, 
The  gentle  mother — she  who  bore, 

Yet  bless' d  the  pang,  the  worst  of  all, 
That  none  but  mothers  ever  know  !  — 

The  sturdy  friend,  as  true  as  brave, 
That  stood  between  me  and  the  foe, 

And  pluck'd  me  from  the  greedy  wave. 

VI. 

Sweet,  holy  phantoms  !  —  how  they  rise  ! 

They  pass,  they  smile,  they  wave  their  hands, 
And  beckon,  blessing,  to  the  skies, 

That  open  at  their  high  commands  ! 
Ah  !  wherefore  seek  the  wizard's  power, 

To  bring  us  back  the  loved  and  lost, 
When,  by  a  prayer,  and  in  an  hour, 

We  scale  the  heavens  and  hail  the  host ! 

VII. 

The  heart  hath  in  itself  a  spell, 

More  strong  than  wizard  ever  knew ; 


AND    PICTURES.  133 

'Tis  but  to  cherish  memory  well, 

And  keep  the  faith  forever  true ;  — 
To  cast  the  clamoring  world  aside, 

Give  the  whole  soul  to  thought  and  love, 
And  heaven's  blue  portals  open  wide, 

And  pity  watches  from  above  !  — 

VIII. 

She  watches,  and  her  children  come, 

White-winged  charity  and  truth, — 
Hope,  seraph  of  celestial  bloom, 

As  true  as  time  and  warm  as  youth ;  — 
They  bear  the  boon  the  prisoner  prays, 

God's  first  and  fondest  gift  they  bring, 
Primeval  love  !,  —  whose  blessed  rays 

Send  healing  on  affliction's  wing. 

ix. , 
Their  light  is  on  my  heart,  -—  the  weight, 

That  bore  me  down,  —  the  cold,  cold  gloom, 
Are  gone  !  — The  raging  hell  of  hate, 

That  vex'd  my  spirit,  gives  it  room  : 
The  sunlight  warms  my  dungeon  now, 

No  more  the  sufferer  sighs  alone  ;  — 
The  fever  passes  from  his  brow, 

The  sorrow  and  the  night  are  gone, 

x. 

If  now  to  die,  when,  from  the  heart, 
The  hate  and  bitterness  have  fled, — 
12 


134  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

When  selfish  hopes  and  fears  depart, 
And  love  and  truth  remain  instead  ;  — 

'Twere  now  to  join  that  happy  train, 

That  beckoning,  bless,  and  upward  fly;  — 

To  triumph  in  the  past  again, 
And  win  the  future,  in  the  sky ! 


THE  PRAYER  OP  THE  LYRE. 

How  sweetly  doth  the  night 

Send  forth  her  silvery  light, 
Sprinkling  gay  gleams  along  the  slumbering  sea  ; 

While  gentle  wings,  that  rise 

In  the  far  eastern  skies, 
Bring  to  the  sense  a  sad,  strange  melody. 

And  silent  is  the  crowd, 

The  voices,  vex'd  and  loud, 
That  had  been  death  to  these  sweet  spells  around  — 

Oh  !  let  us  seek  yon  beach, 

Wliere,  full  of  solemn  speech, 
The  billows  wake  our  thoughts  to  themes  profound. 

Night  is  thought's  minister, 
And  we,  who  rove  with  her, 
Err  not  to  seek  her  now  in  scene  so  bright  — 


AND    PICTURES.  135 

Scene  that  too  soon  departs, 
Yet  meet  for  gentle  hearts, 

And,  like  the  truth  they  pledge,  lovely  in  heaven's  own 
sight. 

'Twas  in  such  hour  as  this, 

When  roused  to  heaven- wrought  bliss, 
The  ancient  bard's  quick  spirit  smote  the  lyre  ; 

And,  harmonizing  earth, 

Then  music  sprang  to  birth, 
And  claim'd,  so  sweet  her  form,  a  god  to  be  her  sire. 

Then  the  wild  man  grew  tame, 

And  from  the  hill-tops  came 
The  shaggy-mantled  shepherd  with  his  flocks,  — 

And,  as  the  minstrel  sung, 

Old  fable  found  his  tongue, 
And  raised  a  glittering  form  on  all  his  rocks. 

Is  there  no  hope  again, 

For  the  high- chanted  strain, 
That  stream'd  in  beauty  then  o'er  mount  and  valley  wide; 

When,  from  each  hill  and  dell, 

Down-brought  by  minstrel  spell, 
Bounding,  the  muses  came,  in  joy  from  every  side. 

When,  taught  by  spirits  choice, 
Each  forest-thronging  voice 
Made  music  of  its  own  for  thousand  listening  ears  ; 


136  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

When  every  flower  and  leaf 
Had  its  own  joy  and  grief, 
And  wings  ascending  came  from  the  less  gifted  spheres. 

Shall  the  time,  never  more, 

The  old  sweet  song  restore, 
That  made  the  stern  heart  gentle,  and  to  all, 

The  vicious  and  the  good, 

The  kind  of  heart  and  rude, 

Brought   spells   that   wrapped   each   soul    in   sweetest 
thrall. 

The  sacred  groves  that  then, 

Showed  spirit-forms  to  men, 

And  crowned  high  hopes  and    led  to  each  most  lofty 
shrine, 

The  oracles  that  wore 

Rich  robes  of  mystic  lore, 
And  taught,  if  not  a  faith,  at  least  a  song,  divine : — 

Still  silent — will  they  keep 

In  a  cold,  death-like  sleep, 
Nor  minister  to  man,  nor  soothe  him  as  of  old  1  — 

"Winning  him  from  his  stye, 

To  immortality, 
Making  each  feeling  true,  making  each  virtue  bold. — 

Oh,  will  they  not  descend, 
Sweet  spirits,  to  befriend, 


AND    PICTURES.  137 

Bring  back  the  ancient  muse,  bring  back  the  golden 
lyre  — 

Teach  us  the  holier  good, 

Of  that  more  pliant  mood, 
When  self,  untutored  came,  to  light  affection's  fire  ;  — 

When — yet  untaught  to  build, 

In  some  more  favored  field, 
His  cheerless  cabin  far  from  where  the  rest  abode, — 

He  had  rio  thought  so  free, 

But  his  heart  yearned  to  be 
Bowed  down,  with  all  his  tribe,  to  each  domestic  god. 

Still  keeps  the  sky  as  fair, 

The  pleasant  moon  is  there, 
And  the  winds  whisper  yet,  as  if  upon  them  borne, 

Spirits  came  still  to  earth, 

Happy,  as  at  its  birth, 
To  rove  its  shadowy  walks,  now  crowded  and  forlorn. 

'Tis  man  alone  is  changed — 

The  shepherd — he  who  ranged 
O'er  the  wild  hills,  a  giant  in  the  sun— 

His  soul  and  eye  aloft, 

His  bosom  strong,  but  soft, 
With  spirit,  that  fresh  joy  from  each  new  season  won.— 

Look  on  him  now — the  slave  ! 
Since  that  sad  knowledge  gave 
The  restless  thirst  that  mocks  at  quiet  good  j 
12* 


138  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

The  innocent  joy  no  more, 
That  the  old  forest  wore, 

Nor  yet  the  charm  of  song,  may  soothe  his  sleepless 
mood. 

Power's  proud  consciousness, — 

How  should  it  ever  bless, 
When  still  it  prompts  a  dark  and  sleepless  strife  1  — 

A  sleepless  strife  to  sway, 

And  bear  that  spoil  away, 
Had  been  the  common  stock  in  his  old  shepherd  life. 

Ah,  me  !  would  time  restore 

The  ancient  faith  —  the  lore, 
That  taught  sweet  dreams,  kind  charities  and  love, 

Soothing  the  spirit's  pride, 

Bidding  the  heart  confide, 
Lifting  the  hope  until  its  eye  grew  fixed  above  ! 

Once — once  again,  the  song 

That  stayed  the  arm  of  wrong, — 

Once  more  the  sacred  strain  that  charmed  the  shepherd's 
rude ; 

Send  it,  sweet  spirits,  —  ye 

Who  lift  man's  destiny, — 
Once  more,  oh,  let  it  bless  our  solitude. 

Teach  us  that  strife  is  wo, 
The  love  of  lucre  low, 
And  but  high  hopes  and  thoughts  are  worthy  in  our  aim ; 


AND    PICTURES.  139 

Teach  us  that  love  alone, 
Pure  love,  long  heavenward  flown, 
Can  bring  us  that  sweet  happiness  we  claim. 

And  with  that  sacred  lore, 

The  shepherd  loved,  once  more 
Arouse  the  frolic  beat  of  the  hope-licensed  heart, — 

When,  gathering  ip  the  grove, 

Young  maidens  sang  of  love, 
And  no  cold  bigot  came  to  chide  the  minstrel's  art. 

Then,  were  these  teachers  still  — 

This  moon,  yon  quiet  hill,  , 

The  sea,  and  more  than  all,  the  swelling  breeze  that 
brings, 

With  every  hour  like  this, 

A  dream  of  life  and  bliss, 
With  healing  to  the  sad  heart  on  its  wings. 

Then  would  the  chanted  strain, 

Of  the  old  bard,  again, 

Bring  cheerful  thoughts  once  more  around  the  evening 
fire  ; 

Then  would  the  pure  and  young, 

Such  as  the  minstrel  sung, 
Once  more  rejoice  to  hear  the  young  earth's  infant  lyre. 


140  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 


THE   DESERTED    HOME. 


All  silent  is  the  dwelling  now, 

Where  pleasant  voices  rung, 
And  gone  to  waste  the  festal  bower 

Where  tended  garlands  hung; 
And  mute  and  motionless  is  all, 

Once  full  of  life  and  speech, — 
Ah,  me !  how  much  of  human  wo 

Does  this  sad  ruin  teach. 

II. 

How  many  hopes  have  here  been  crush'd, 

As  innocent  as  dear, 
How  many  smiling  eyes  been  taught 

The  language  of  a  tear  ;  — 
And  dreams  of  early,  rich  delight, 

Like  specks  upon  the  waste, 
Have  only  come  to  cheat  the  sight, 

While  they  defraud  the  taste. 

in. 

While  thus  I  stand  and  look  around 

On  scenes  so  lately  gay, 
And  call  to  mind  the  happy  tones 

I  heard  but  yesterday  j 


AND    PICTURES.  141 


That  reverend  father's  friendly  voice, 
That  merry  maiden's  song 

That  sank  so  deep  into  my  heart, 
And  warm'd  it  well  and  long ;  — 


IV. 


The  wild-eyed  boys  that  sprang  to  meet 

When  they  beheld  me  near, 
And,  even  the  household  dog,  that  crouch 'd, 

My  sure  caress  to  share  ;  — 
All  gone  —  the  little  paling  down, 

The  grass  above  the  stone  ; 
The  shutter  broken  from  its  hinge, 

And  ruin  there  alone  j  — 


v. 

I  cannot  weep,  though  sad  the  sight, 

And  sad  the  thought  it  brings, 
Of  what  was  dear,  and  what  is  lost, 

Of  sweet  familiar  things  ;  — 
The  voices  at  my  heart  grow  dumb, 

And  like  some  lorn  despair, 
They  echo  in  their  loneliness 

The  silence  that  is  here. 

VI. 

And  grief  is  lost  in  great  surprise 
That  in  my  manhood's  noon, 


142  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

I  still  should  love  the  things  so  well, 

That  pass  away  so  soon. 
A  flow'r  that  kiss'd  me  in  a  dream, 

By  zephyrs  borne  along, 
Had  fill'd  my  chamber  with  its  bloom, 

And  lulPd  me  with  its  song  ;  — 

VII. 

An  unsubstantial  joy — the  gift 

Of  warm  and  generous  youth, 
In  one  delirious  moment  fill'd 

My  yielding  heart  like  truth  ; 
Till,  in  my  fond  forgetfulness, 

A  shadow  and  a  bird, 
Brought  pictures  to  my  pliant  soul, 

The  sweetest  seen  and  heard. 

VIII. 

The  shadow  and  the  bird  are  fled  — 

The  kind  hearts  kindliest  known, 
More  sweet  and  swift  than  summer  flow'rs, 

Are  faded  all,  and  gone  ; 
They  came  like  summer  winds  at  night, 

To  win  us  with  a  breath, 
Then  sink,  in  quietude  away, 

To  the  pale  groves  of  death. 


AND    PICTURES.  143 


THE    HUMBLE    LOT. 

I  WOULD  I  were  yon  peasant  boy, 

Content  in  humble  sphere  to  move, 
Whose  dreams  are  ever  dreams  of  joy, 

Whose  thoughts  are  ever  thoughts  of  love  — 
Whom  no  exalted  hope  impels, 

To  change  the  home  from  childhood  dear, 
And  leave  those  early  hills  and  dells, 

He  may  not  find  again  but  there;-— 
Whom  not  the  gew-gaws  of  the  gay, 

Where  fashion  leads  and  folly  leers, 
Can  tempt  from  virtue's  paths  to  stray, 

To  taint  the  hopes  of  future  years  — 
Exchanging  old  and  certain  friends, 

For  those  that  fool  and  then  depart, 
Until,  from  every  tie  he  rends, 

That  once  had  holy  made,  his  heart.-*- 
Whose  every  morning  sun  still  finds, 

The  humble  follower  of  his  plough, 
Cheerful  among  the  cheerful  minds, 

That  make  his  fireside  happy  now ! 
He  fills  his  fields  with  golden  grain, 

He  crowns  with  plenty  labor's  board, 
And  blest  with  health,  and  free  from  pain, 

Maintains  no  feud  and  fears  no  lord. 
In  clouds  his  brow  is  never  seen, 

But  happy  still  in  hope  and  health, 
He  views  his  fields  and  gardens  green, 


144  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  has  no  thought  of  greater  wealth. 
The  brook  that  through  his  valley  steals 

Down,  murmuring  to  its  quiet  base, 
Hears  not  the  sigh  of  one  who  feels 

A  single  wish  to  change  his  place. 
He  climbs  the  mountain's  brow  at  morn, 

Beholds  the  fields  in  verdure  clad — 
He  weeps  not  that  he  e'er  was  born, 

His  heart  —  his  very  heart  —  is  glad  ! 

Ah  !  would  it  were  that  we  could  change 

The  mind's  condition  with  the  form, 
Nor  sigh  to  rise,  nor  pine  to  range, 

Nor  clamor  for  the  strife  and  stcfrm  — 
Nor,  vex'd  with  hopes  denied,  deplore 

The  higher  promptings  of  the  soul ; 
Bewilder'd  still  by  vexing  lore, 

That  will  not  brook  nor  bear  control  — 
Led  by  that  wisp  of  thought  which  guides 

Through  fen  and  forest,  wayward  still, 
'Till  fancy's  self  grows  sad,  and  chides, 

And  hope  is  sick,  and  love  is  chill ! 
I  would  I  were,  what  1  am  not, 

And  knew  not  all  that  now  I  know, — 
How  sad  my  own,  how  sweet  the  lot 

That  peasant  owns,  I  envy  now  ! 


AND    PICTURES.  146 


APRIL. 


APRIL  month  !  —  it  is  the  time, 
When  the  merry  birds  do  chime 
Airy  wood-notes,  wild  and  free, 
In  half-budded  bow'r  and  tree  ; 
Rousing  up,  with  gleesome  cheer, 
The  slow  servants  of  the  year, 
Where  they  took  their  winter  sleep, 
In  earth's  mansions,  dark  and  deep  ; 
Whatsoe'er  they  hap  to  be, 
In  green  coat  and  livery. — 
Roving  wind,  whose  rosy  mouth, 
Odor'd  by  the  sunny  south, 
Loves  to  press,  as  still  he  flies, 
Beds  of  thousand  luxuries  — 
Skimming  still,  as  light  he  passes, 
Pearly  drops  from  glittering  grasses, 
That  do  yield  their  tribute  free, 
For  the  press  of  such  as  he. — 
Budding  flow'rs  that  ope  to  gain 
Some  sweet  homage  from  his  train, 
And,  with  blushing  lips  receive, 
What  the  rover  deigns  to  give, 
As,  on  hurried  mission  bent, 
By  the  dove-eyed  April  sent, 
He,  to  chase  old  winter's  snows, 
O'er  the  waste  and  valley  goes. 
13 


146 


SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 
II. 

Month  of  bright,  fantastic  change, 
Sweet,  familiar,  wild  and  strange, — 
Time  of  promise,  when  the  leaf 
Has  its  tear  of  pleasant  grief,  — 
When  the  winds,  by  nature  coy, 
Do  both  cold  and  heat  alloy, 
Nor,  to  either,  will  dispense 
Their  delighting  preference;  — 
When  the  mother  earth  brings  forth, 
From  her  bosom  all  her  worth ; 
Precious  store,  which,  in  her  womb, 
Hidden,  through  the  winter's  gloom, 
Kept  the  sacred  fires  from  harm, 
Unextinguished  still,  and  warm;  — 
When  the  old  tree,  flush  of  fruit, 
Clothes  himself  in  motley  suit, 
And,  from  waters,  woods,  and  sky, 
Comes  the  universal  cry, — 
Summer's  first-born  voices,  springing 
From  their  winter's  sleep,  and  singing 
Sweetest  song  !  that  speaks  of  time, 
When  fresh  nature,  in  her  prime, 
Had  no  shadow,  knew  no  chill, 
To  o'ertop  the  sunny  hill, 
Where  kind  spirits  came  to  bless 
Young  creation's  loveliness. 

in. 

Bosom'd  April !  —  she  doth  bring 
A  true  promise  of  the  spring, 


AND    PICTURES.  147 

Rich  profusion,  not  to  pall, 
But  to  bless  and  honor  all. 
Are  the  frosts  of  winter  down, 
On  your  bald  and  yellow  crown  1 
Heed  it  not  —  your  heart  rejoices, 
In  the  young-bird,  April  voices  ! 
Virgin  !  budding  like  the  season, 
Love  has  now  sufficient  reason  — 
Look  around,  —  sweet  counsels  rise, 
For  your  young  heart,  to  your  eyes ; 
And  the  tutors  that  you  see, 
Set  your  hopes  and  fancies  free. 
Have  you  felt  the  dream  of  love  ? 
Take  your  lesson  from  the  dove  !  — 
Hope  —  by  all  these  opening  flowers, 
Hope  —  by  all  these  fruitful  showers, 
For  the  dream  your  heart  beguiles, 
Is  of  tears,  and  blooms,  and  smiles. 
Lo  !  the  urchin,  with  keen  eye, 
As  the  season  draweth  nigh, 
When,  from  school-book  haply  free, 
He  hath  time  and  chance  to  see; 
How,  with  heart  whose  beat  is  mirth, 
Leaps  he  o'er  the  yielding  earth  — 
While  his  look  is  full  of  haste, 
And  his  lips  speak  fresher  taste, 
And  a  smile  of  victory, 
Twinkles  in  his  roguish  eye, 
As  he  sees,  in  thicket  deep, 
Where  the  mother  mockbirds  keep, 


148 


SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

And  accounts  secure,  the  spoil, 
Which  shall  pay  him  for  his  toil. 

IT. 

Nor  is  he,  the  poet,  less, 

One  the  season  loves  to  bless  !  — 

In  the  shelter  of  the  wood, 

With  the  sad  nymph,  solitude,, 

View  him,  as  at  dawn  he  roves, 

In  the  doubtful  light  he  loves. 

With  sad  eye,  yet  cheeks  all  glowing, 

And  long  hair  all  loosely  flowing, 

He  beholds,  with  every  view, 

Something  beautiful  and  new ;  — 

Something  yet  unknown  before, 

Fitted  well  to  fill  his.  store, 

Garner 'd  up  with  other  thought, 

'Till  the  teeming  brain  hath  wrought, 

From  their  mingled  treasures  then, 

Some  undying  gift  to  men. — 

Studious,  as  he  moves  along, 

What  his  lips  shall  give  to  song, 

Where  the  moral  shall  be  sought, 

Which  shall  crown  and  strengthen  thought ; 

Where  the  flow'ret  shall  be  placed, 

Which  the  thought  has  nobly  graced  ; 

And,  what  consecrated  muse, 

To  receive  it,  he  shall  choose. 


AND    PICTURES.  149 


Nothing  doth  he  lose  that  lies, 
Order'd  well,  beneath  his  eyes  — 
Not  a  ripple  swells  the  tide, 
But  it  is,  to  him,  a  guide, 
And  direction,  which  his  lyre, 
"Will,  in  future  song,  require. 
Doth  the  glow-worm  meet  his  sight, 
As  with  half-awakened  light, 
She  would  speed  in  shame  away, 
From  the  rapid,  rushing  day  ]  — 
Doth  the  flower,  that  yester-e'en, 
He  hath  in  its  beauty  seen, 
Growing  in  his  evening  walk, 
Now  lie  withered  on  its  stalk  ]  — 
Nought  is  profitless  he  sees, 
And  he  wins  a  truth  from  these, 
Which  shall  teach  a  higher  race, 
Noblest  thought  and  sweetest  grace  * 
'Tis  to  him  a  joy  to  find, 
Laws  in  nature  for  his  mind,  ^- 
Counsellors  of  faith  and  trust, 
Which,  he  knows,  are  ever  just ; 
Happy,  if  from  wood  or  lake, 
Hill  or  valley,  he  may  take 
Rules,  for  which  his  fellow  looks, 
In  dull  school  and  dismal  books. 

13* 


150  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

VI. 

Nor,  with  laws  of  common  life, 

Only,  is  the  season  rife  ;  — 

Dreams  of  other  worlds  arise 

On  the  poet's  roving  eyes,  — 

Strong  imagination's  wing, 

Bears  him  in  its  wandering, 

And  he  sees,  with  curbless  vision, 

Scenes  of  hope,  and  homes  elysian, 

Where,  in  foreign  climes  and  groves, 

Dew-eyed  contemplation  roves, 

By  the  old  tradition  won, 

To  the  chambers  of  the  sun, 

When  time's  eyes  were  shrouded  quite 

'Neath  the  mantle  of  old  night ; 

And  he  sees,  and  weeps  to  see  — 

Such  his  sweet  humanity  — 

Where  the  Inca  dies,  and  this, 

For  the  Spaniard's  avarice. 

VII. 

Slumbering  then  in  noon-tide  bower, 
Lo  !  a  new  life  fills  the  flower, 
Fit,  but  foreign,  not  its  own, 
Making  of  the  flower  a  throne  ; 
And  converting  all  around, 
Into  deep,  forbidden  ground. 
'Tis  the  season  of  the  year 
When  the  fairy  tribes  appear, 


AND    PICTURES.  151 

Kindred  things  with  bud  and  bird, 
Born  with  them,  and  in  them  heard. 
When,  at  noon,  the  forests  sleep, 
Then,  the  whispering  urchins  creep, 
Perch' d  on  nodding  limbs,  look  down, 
Where,  on  leaves,  by  winter  brown, 
The  sad  poet  dreams,  and  sees, 
What  the  prompting  prattlers  please. 
Lull'd  by  sweet  discourse,  he  lies, 
With  bound  limbs  and  seal'd  up  eyes, 
'Till,  at  night,  they  set  him  free, 
To  behold  their  company, 
Dancing,  in  the  holy  shade, 
On  the  plain  their  feet  have  made, 
To  the  music  of  the  breeze, 
Sweetest  of  all  melodies, 
'Neath  the  moon's  ascending  blaze, 
That  trims  the  forest  with  her  rays, 
And,  in  her  benignant  mood, 
Silver-laces  all  the  flood  ! 

VHK 

There  they  sport,  and  who  but  they, 
Happy  in  such  infant  play, 
Tossing,  in  their  random  rout, 
Fruits  and  flowers  and  leaves  about. 
While  the  poet,  'neath  the  tree, 
Looks  on  their  festivity, 
The  sweet  fancy  ever  near, 
Pours  a  legend  in  his  ear  — 


152  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Points  his  eye  from  all  apart, 
Brooding  on  her  own. sad  heart, 
Where  a  gentle  maiden  looks, 
Watchful,  on  the  winding  brooks. 
'Tis  by  sentence  of  their  king, 
That,  until  the  lilies  spring, 
Floating  free,  like  sad  blue  eyes, 
WTiere  the  waters  sleep  and  rise, 
That  her  rebel  lover  be, 
Bound  in  tough  and  close  pegg'd  tree, 
And  she  watches  there  to  note 
The  young  blue  water-lilies  float. 

IX. 

Cruel  Oberon  !   to  part  1 

Flow'r  and  moon-beam  —  heart  and  heart  ! 

But  they  soon  shall  meet  again, 

For  the  gentle  wind  and  rain, 

Have  been  busy  all  the  night, 

Bringing  summer's  train  to  light, 

And  the  fairy  maid  shall  hear, 

Love's  own  language  fill  her  ear. 

Now  she  starts  with  joyful  eye,  — 

In  the  stream  is  rising  high, 

That  sweet  flow'r  whose  first  appearing 

Brings  to  her  the  hope  so  cheering ; 

And  she  laughs,  for,  by  her  side, 

Stands  he  now  in  youthful  pride  ;  — 

And  the  happy  people  round, 

Glad  to  see  the  boy  unbound, 


AND    PICTURES.  153 


From  green  bush  and  bending  tree, 
Leap  in  wild  festivity. 
But  Titania's  cricket  chiding, 
They  obey  her  summons,  gliding, 
One  and  all,  with  common  motion, 
As  she  sails  along  the  ocean, 
Bent  for  hidden  islands  where 
Mortal  bark  may  never  steer. 
All  is  rapture  in  their  flight, 
Melody  and  young  delight,  — 
And  they  gather,  void  of  care, 
With  the  lowly  world  so  near,  — 
From  blue  heaven  and  shining  sea, 
Strains  of  untouch'd  harmony. 
Many  a  shell  is  wound  to-night, 
Many  a  mermaid's  bower  is  bright, 
As  her  lover  leaps  in  sight, 
From  a  moon-beam,  in  a  shower- 
Of  its  silver,  for  a  dower  !  — 
Happy  race  !  that  may  explore, 
Sounding  sea  and  silent  shore,  — 
Fill  the  void  with  leaping  forms, 
Travel,  heedless  of  its  storms. 
Who  so  happy  in  the  sky 
And  its  home  of  purity  *?  — - 
Who  so  happy  in  the  air, 
With  the  sad  night-music  there  1  — 
Who,  that  skims  the  ocean,  dwells 
'Mid  the  notes  of  such  sweet  shells, 
In  the  sea- wall' d  coral  bower, 


154  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

Which  defies  the  storm-god's  power  — 

As  the  race  thus  let  to  pierce, 

All  the  secret  universe, 

And,  before  the  time  is  given, 

Win  the  happiness  of  Heaven  ? 

x. 

'Twas  an  April  dream,  yet  sure, 
Such  as  ever  must  endure, 
While  the  poet  has  a  thought, 
Or  the  web  of  fancy's  wrought. 
Kindred  thus  with  nature's  store, 
Worthy  of  her  sweetest  lore,  — 
'Tis  a  proper  wing  that  flies, 
To  dominions  of  the  skies  ; 
And,  to  lowly  earth,  down  brings, 
Owners  for  such  blessed  things, 
As,  around  us,  spread  the  joys, 
Which  our  reckless  hand  destroys. 
For  a  gentler  race,  the  flower, 
Fills  the  air  with  sweetest  breath  ; 
For  another  world,  the  show'r, 
Bright  and  pearl-like,  gems  the  heath  ; 
The  green  leaf  that  makes  the  bower, 
And  the  bird  whose  fluted  throat, 
With  a  wild  and  lavish  power, 
Wasteful  of  its  wanton  note, 
Sure,  were  meant  to  bless  the  elves, 
Which  are  gentle  like  themselves. 


AND    PICTURES.  155 

XI. 

Sweetest  April —  could  it  be, 
That  our  hearts  were  worthy  thee, 
And  could  take  a  gentle  tone, 
Such  as  ever  marks  thine  own ; 
We  were  happy  with  the  things, 
That  thy  presence  ever  brings. 
What,  throughout  the  live-long  year, 
With  thy  freshness  can  compare  — 
Where  the  day  whose  dewy  sweetness, 
And  the  night  whose  touching  fleetness, 
And  the  sky  whose  purer  splendor, 
And  the  flower  whose  petal  tender, 
Bright  and  sweet,  howe'er  they  be, 
Which  may  match,  sweet  month,  with  thee ! 


WHILE  THE  SILENT  NIGHT  GOES  BY. 

While  the  silent  night  goes  by, 
And  the  winds  have  scarce  a  sigh, 
And  the  hours  seem  not  to  move, 
Do  I  think  of  thee,  my  love. 

And  the  moonlight's  on  the  hill, 
And  the  voice  of  man  is  still, 
Silent,  in  our  walks,  I  rove, 
And  I  think  of  thee,  my  love. 


156  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Every  thing  recalls  thee  now, 
And  I  see  thy  maiden  brow, 
Large  dark  eyes  that  sweetly  rove, 
With  a  gentle  fear,  my  love. 

There  is  yet  a  richer  spell 
In  thy  bosom's  virgin  swell, 
And  its  timid  beatings  prove, 
All  thy  truth  to  me,  my  love. 

Walks  thy  spirit  now  with  mine, 
In  the  calm  and  colid  moonshine  — 
Dost  thou  seek  in  sleep  our  grove, 
Dost  thou  dream  of  me,  my  love  ? 


TO   A   WINTER   FLOWER. 


WHEN  winter  comes  with  icy  mien, 
To  silver  o'er  this  little  brook, 

Upon  its  banks  thy  form  is  seen, 
By  all  forsook. 

H. 

No  shrub  then  lingers  on  the  plain, 
To  feed  the  warm  and  watchful  gaze 


AND    PICTURES.  157 

Nor  blade  of  grass  the  fields  retain, 
Nor  sprig  of  maize. 

in. 

Far  as  the  searching  eye  may  bend, 
O'er  gentle  slope  and  bedded  vale, 

The  barren,  cheerless  woods  extend, 
Thou  tell'st  their  tale. 

IV. 

Thou,  of  the  autumn  train  the  last, 
A  mournful  truth  thy  form  conveys, 

Thou  lingering  relic  of  the  past, 
And  brighter  days, 

v. 

No  other  flow'r,  that  late  could  vie, 

Superior  once  in  bloom  to  thee, 
May  now  unfold,  beneath  the  sky, 

Its  pageantry. 

VI. 

Struck  in  the  sullen  clod  too  deep, 

Thy  roots  the  wintry  winds  defy, 
And  while  thy  thousand  brethren  sleep, 

Thou  lift'st  thine  eye. 

VII. 

What  secret  spring  of  life  is  thine, 

And  what  art  thou,  pale  flow'r,  to  gain 
14 


158  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Such  partial  favor,  thus  to  shine 
Last  of  thy  train  ? 


VIII. 


Unhurt,  when  all  around  are  dead, 
Unshrinking,  though  the  blasts  arise, 

And  lifting  still  thy  fearless  head, 
In  fearful  skies. 


IX. 


Such  lot,  methinks,  can  ne'er  be  blest, 
To  feel  ourselves  in  life  alone, — 

A  late,  and  watchful,  lingering  guest, 
When  all  are  gone  ! 


THE   FALSE    AND    TRUE. 


I  DREAMED  of  a  glory  of  many  hues, 
A  rainbow  spann'd  in  the  azure  skies ; 

And  still,—- as  the  thoughtless  boy  pursues 
Wherever  the  gaudy  insect  flies,  — 

I  chased  it  afar  from  land  to  land, 
A  glowing  thing  of  many  cares  — 

I  caught  it  at  last  in  my  feverish  hand, 

And,  at  the  same  instant,  it  turned  to  tears. 


AND    PICTURES.  159 

II. 

Yet  while  I  wept  at  the  bow's  decay, 

Another  rose  in  the  clear  blue  sky, 
And  I  heard  a  voice  that  seem'd  to  say, 

"  Again  pursue,  and  it  will  not  fly, — 
For  this  is  the  true,  the  lasting  light, 

The  other  a  semblance  and  born  to  fade ;  — 
This  is  the  being  of  endless  bright, 

The  other  of  earth  and  a  thing  of  shade." 

in. 

Thus  pleasure  that  springs  from  the  lasting  heav'n, 

An  image  hath  in  the  world  below  ; 
By  sorrows  and  tears,  alone,  'tis  given, 

The  sweet  and  the  real  from  the  false  to  know  ;  — 
And  when  by  one  false  form  betrayed  — 

A  goodly  lesson  for  heart  and  eye, — 
Thou  wilt  choose  the  glory  that  may  not  fade, 

And  win  the  blessing  that  cannot  die. 


HYMN   AT   EVENING. 


Bright  the  sun  is  sinking 
In  the  blue  wave,  drinking 
Glory  from  his  blaze ; 


160  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And,  no  longer  sleeping, 
Lo  !  the  night  star  leaping, 
Wins  his  latest  rays. 

ir. 

Down,  his  chariot  driven, 
Leaves  the  cope  of  heaven, 

Robed  with  yellow  fleece  ; 
While  a  softer  glory 
O'er  yon  promontory 

Swells  aloft  in  peace. 

IK. 

Source  of  every  blessing, 
All  beyond  expressing, 

That  a  god  may  give  ; 
Type  of  light  and  being 
Seen  by  all,  all  seeing, 

In  thy  glance  we  live. 

IV. 

Though  we  dwell  with  sorrow 
Yet  thy  ray  to-morrow, 

Shall  remove  our  chain  ; 
Thou  wilt  banish  sadness, 
Thou  wilt  bring  us  gladness, 

When  thou  com'st  again. 

v. 

And,  this  blessed  even, 
Take  our  prayer  to  heaven  — 


AND    PICTURES.  161 

If  to-night  we  die, 
That — through  death's  dark  portal 
More  than  thee,  immortal — 

We  may  win  the  sky. 


SONG    IN    SPRING. 

THE  spring  hath  many  garments, 
And  puts  gay  colors  on, 

And  pearls  of  dewy  morning 
She  gathers  for  the  sun  ; 

And  deck'd  with  many  flow'rs, 

She  dances  with  the  hours. 

And  gentle  winds  attend  her 
From  many  a  southern  sea, 

That  come  with  tribute  laden, 
So  musical  and  free  — 

In  forests  couch'd  with  roses 

Her  virgin  form  reposes. 

And  when  the  sun  is  sinking 
In  sadness  from  the  sky, 

She  warbles  for  the  twilight 
Her  soothing  lullaby ; 

And  with  the  lingering  hours, 

She  puts  to  sleep  the  flow'rs. 


162  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Oh,  gentle  spring,  I  love  thee, 
Thy  pleasant  dews  and  airs, 

The  freshness  of  thy  countenance 
When  winter  disappears  — 

The  bird  thaxt  with  thee  singest, 

And  the  rich  red  buds  thou  bringest. 


TO 


'TWAS  meant  for  thee,  when  all  look'd  dark, 

And  ev'ry  friend  my  childhood  knew, 
Shrunk  from  the  slight  and  vent'rous  bark, 

As  fearless  o'er  the  waves  it  flew  — 
Unshaken  still,  to  keep  thy  faith, 

And  through  each  gloomy  storm  that  came, 
To  shield  me,  in  thy  pray'rs,  from  scath, 

To  keep  me,  in  thy  words,  from  blame. 

When  narrow  fears  beset  the  base> 

And  selfish  hopes  o'ercame  the  mean, 
'Twas  love  alone,  whose  gentle  face, 

Look'd  still  unchanged  through  all  the  scene ; 
And,  with  the  darkness  of  the  hour, 

Thy  truth  but  more  conspicuous  shone, 
As  some  sweet  star,  when  clouds  have  power, 

Looks  proudly  out  from  heaven,  alone! 


AND    PICTURES.  163 

Shall  I  not  love  thee,  evermore, 

Thou  more  than  planet  guide  to  me, 
Whose  gentle  light,  on  sea  and  shore, 

Still  spoke  thy  true  heart's  constancy  ? 
Oh,  be  time's  changes  what  they  will, 

They  cannot  change  that  sleepless  thought, 
That  tells,  —  that  teaches  of  thee,  still, 

By  thee,  for  evermore,  still  taught. 


A   LAY  IN  WINTER. 

WHEREFORE,  oh,  winter,  hast  thou  left  thy  tower, 
Rashly  to  break  into-  this  »acred  bower, 

Thou,  with  thy  dusky  brow, 

And  lip  of  snow  1 

I  raised  this  bower  beneath  a  fruitful  breeze, 
When  suns  were  bright  in  April,  and  the  trees 

Had  each,  in  summer's  gear, 

Commenced  the  year. 

I  built  it  with  a  fond  and  curious  art, 
I  built  it  for  a  creature  of  the  heart  — 

Its  flowers  and  leaves  I  wove, 

To  win  her  love. 

Even  as  a  shrine  and  shelter  from  the  storm, 
Meet  for  a  true  affection,  and  a  form, 


164  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Its  crowning  and  blest  flewer — 
I  raised  this  bower  ! 

And  April,  as  if  joining  in  my  toil, 

Called  forth  a  thousand  shrubs  from  out  the  soil  — 

And  green  and  purple  gems 

Hung  on  their  stems. 

Then  came  the  enamor'd  zephyrs  through  the  day, 
And  here  they  took  their  wild  and  various  play, 

Singing,  till  all  the  grounds 

Grew  sweet  with  sounds. 

And  she  I  loved  —  when  rose  the  yellow  moon, 
High  in  the  blue  ethereal  —  follow'd  soon, 

Her  voice  of  sweetest  fear 

Thrilling  mine  ear. 

Here,  without  witness,  that  broad  moon  beside, 
The  sacred  cords  of  well-placed  love  we  tied, 

And  words  I  may  not  tell 

Between  us  fell. 

That  time  is  gone  —  thou  tenantest  the  bower, 
Expelling  all  beside,  with  ruthless  power — 

Rending  the  quiet  woods, 

Trampling  the  buds. 

The  sacred  shrine  of  love  is  overthrown  — 
The  affrighted  sweet  divinity  withdrawn, 


<  AND    PICTURES.  165 

And  thy  usurping  foot 
Beyond  dispute. 

I  challenge  not  thy  sway,  nor  fear  its  gloom  — 
The  storms  that  make  thy  sov'reignty,  become, 

Now,  that  the  lov'd  is  lost, 

My  bosom's  frost. 

And,  since  I  may  not  the  belov'd  restore, 
To  share  their  raptures  with  me  as  before, 

I  care  not  for  the  bower, 

The  leaf  or  flower. 

They  would  remind  my  spirit,  in  the  few, 
Sad  trophies,  which  the  season  might  renew, 

Of  what,  in  all  life's  spring, 

They  could  not  bring. 

For  her  I  raised  the  bower,  that  she  might  make 
Its  loveliness  to  me  —  and,  for  her  sake, 

The  leaves  were  taught  to  glow, 

The  buds  to  blow. 

Ah  !  might  they  but  behold  her  once  again, 

And  she  come  back  to  sway  their  summer  train  — 

Alas  !  the  idle  prayer 

Freezes  in  air ! 

Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  thou  wilt  be 
An  exile,  monarch  winter,  sad  like  me  — 


166  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

To  some  far  desert  gone, 
Howling  and  lone  ! 

Oh,  seated  on  her  bow,  when  Summer  comes 
Cover'd  with  leaves,  sweet  airs,  and  flow'ry  blooms- 

Go,  —  fling  thy  sceptre  down, 

She  wears  thy  crown  ! 


A    W.INTER   LAY    IN    SPRING. 

PROUDLY,  oh  !  proudly,  in  the  bright  sun's  eye, 
"Which  kindles  all  things  that  beneath  it  lie, 

The  queenly  spring  brings  forth 

The  flowers  of  earth. 

And  nature  gladdens  in  the  green  array, 
And  all  her  subjects  put  on  holiday  — 

The  tree,  all  leafless  late, 

Its  blossoms  delicate. 

There  is  no  angry  cloud  upon  the  gale, 
There  is  no  brooding  shadow  on  the  vale  — 

The  forests  leap  with  life, 

The  city  hath  its  strife. 

But  thou,  that  made  to  me,  forest  and  town, 
Wear  a  fresh  look  of  beauty  not  their  own  — 


AND    PICTURES.  167 

Persuading  me,  through  thee, 
All  things  to  see  !  — 

Thou  wilt  no  more  behold  that  sun's  bright  eye, 
Nor  pluck  the  flow'rs,  nor  watch  the  blessed  sky  — 

Nor,  in  hope  blossoming  spring, 

Hear  the  wild  mockbird  sing. 

Oh,  never  more  will  these,  in  forest  shade, 
Put  on  their  winning  aspect,  to  persuade 

Thy  heart  to  those  sweet  bounds, 

That  timed  all  natural  sounds  ! 

To  thee,  their  charms  are  as  a  wing  gone  by, 

A  bright  clear  wing,  whose  tints  were  wove  on  high, 

Glorious  in  earth's  esteem, 

But  still  its  dream. 

Well  valued  once,  they  may  no  more  control  — 
Thou  dost  regard  no  longer  what  thy  soul, 

With  the  true  mother  taste 

Had  still  embraced. 

Yet  do  the  seasons,  as  they  come,  restore 
The  thousand  joys  that  won  us  both  before  :  — 

They  bring,  alas  !  for  me, 

All  things  but  thee. 


,     *    » 

s  ^ 

^       ^ 

168  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

SHEPHERD'S    HYMN, 

PARAPHRASED  FROM   TWENTY-THIRD   PSALM. 

OH,  when  I  rove  the  desert  waste,  and  'neath  the  hot 

sun  pant, 
The  Lord  shall  be  my  shepherd  then,  he  will  not  let  me 

want ; 
He  '11  lead  me  where  the  pastures  are  of  soft  and  shady 

green, 
And    where   the    gentle   waters   rove   the    quiet     hills 

between. 

And  when  the  savage  shall  pursue,  and  in  his  grasp  I 

sink, 
He  will  prepare  the  feast  for  me,  and  bring  the  cooling 

drink  ; 
And  save  me  harmlesss  from  his  hands,  and  strengthen 

me  in  toil, 
And  bless  my  home  and  cottage  lands,  and  crown  my 

head  with  oil. 

With  such  a  shepherd  to  protect,  to  guide  and  guard 

me  still, 
And  bless  my  heart  with  every  good,  and  keep  from 

every  ill, 

Surely,  I  shall  not  turn  aside  and  scorn  his  kindly  care, 
But  keep  the  path  he  points  me  out,  and  walk  forever 

there. 


AND    PICTURES.  169 


"OH,    BID    ME    NOT." 

OH,  bid  me  not,  with  smiling  eye, 
Relate  the  cause  of  all  my  pain, 

For  when  you  smile,  alas  !   I  sigh, 
And  when  you're  sad,  I  sigh  again. 

The  smile,  the  sigh,  from  thee  that  flows, 
Must  still  a  source  of  anguish  be  ;  — 

Unless  the  smile,  to  bless  me,  glows, 
Unless  the  sigh  is  breathed  for  me. 


"STILL    ON    THE    DESERT." 

STILL  on  the  desert,  dark  and  lone, 
In  vain,  with  searching  sense,  I  rove, 

To  find  —  sad  hope,  since  thou  art  gone  — 
Some  gentle  spirit  free  to  love. 

A  hopeless  quest,  yet  when  I  droop, 
O'ercome  with  grief  and  wan  despair, 

Upward,  I  seek  the  heavenly  troop, 

And  grieve  no  more,  for  thou  art  there* 


15 


170  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

CHUCKWILL'S    WIDOW. 

THE  CAROLINA  WHIPPOOR-WILL. 

COULD  we  revive  that  ancient  mood, 

"Which  deem'd  each  fable  true, 
When  spirits  walked  in  every  wood, 

Unveil'd  to  human  view — 
It  were  not  with  improper  taste, 
That  in  yon  widow'd  bird  we  placed 

Some  hapless  soul  we  knew  — 
Such  tones  were  not  unmeet  to  prove 
A  fruitless  or  a  guilty  love  ! 

Without  a  voice  or  wing  by  day, 
The  night  comes  scarcely  on, 
Before  that  wild,  remorseful  lay, 

Of  sorrow,  is  begun. 
Monotonously  sad,  its  scream 
Seems  uttered  in  some  fearful  dream, 

The  spirit  still  would  shun  — 
As  if  some  dreadful  fate  were  nigh, 
With  bony  hand  and  spectral  eye. 

Dirgelike  and  drear,  it  well  might  be 
The  wail  of  one,  whose  doom, 

Voiced  by  unerring  destiny, 
Is  still  to  watch  the  tomb  — 

To  tell  the  tale  —  to  mourn  the  fate, 

Of  him  whose  life  was  desolate, 
Made  up  of  many  a  gloom — 


AND    PICTURES.  171 

Of  him,  whose  soul,  all  smear'd  in  guilt, 
Did  penance  still  for  life-blood  spilt. 

Yet  sadder  to  our  thought,  it  were, 

Thus  sorrowing,  to  survive  — 
When  all  is  lost,  how  vain  the  care, 

How  worse  than  vain  to  live ! 
The  doom  of  the  destroyed  were  nought 
To  that  severer  doom  of  thought, 

The  nightly  toil  must  give  : 
'Tis  not  the  dead  that  suffer — they 
Who  mourn  the  dead  are  sorrow's  prey. 

Thine  is  the  note  that  well  appeals 

To  every  human  heart — 
And  well,  in  every  breast  that  feels, 

A  minister  thou  art ;  — 
And  thus,  where'er  the  thousand  throng, 
I  hear  for  aye  that  willow-song, 

And  well  can  bear  my  part — 
'Till,  when  the  strain  no  longer  flows, 
I  wonder  at  the  strange  repose. 


DECAYING    BEAUTY. 

OH,  lovely  were  once  her  eyes,  but  grief 
Their  light  hath  now  o'erclouded  ; 

And  her  lips  were  sweet,  like  the  budding  leaf, 
Though  now  their  bloom  be  shrouded  — 


172  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

For,  in  her  heart,  a  malady, 

Like  the  canker  worm  in  the  rose, 

Preys  ever  there,  unceasingly, 
And  gives  her  no  repose. 

It  is  sad  to  think,  in  a  few  short  hours, 

^We  shall  look  on  her  no  longer, 
For  the  glance  gives  sign  of  the  failing  powers, 

And  the  pang  grows  hourly  stronger ; 
We  shall  lose  the  balm  of  her  budding  breath, 

We  shall  hear  her  voice  no  more ; 
We  shall  see  those  sweet  eyes  sealed  in  death, 

That  we  once  could  so  adore. 

Yet  shall  I  not  weep,  though  losing  all, 

For  many  long  days,  I  so  have  loved  ; 
The  tear  that  from  mine  eyes  would  fall, 

My  thought  has  well  reproved  : 
For  hers  has  been  a  doomed  life, 

And  those  who  love  her  well,  should  pray, 
That  she  may  quickly  lose  the  strife, 

Which  has  eaten  her  heart  away. 


TIS    A    LOWLY    GRAVE. 


'Tis  a  lowly  grave  but  it  suits  her  best, 

Since  it  breathes  of  fragrance  and  speaks  of  rest, 


AND    PICTURES.  173 

And  meet  for  her  is  its  calm  repose, 

Whose  life  was  so  stormy  and  sad  to  its  close. 

'Tis  a  shady  dell  where  they  laid  her  form, 
And  the  hills  gather  round  it  to  break  the  storm, 
While  above  her  head  the  bending  trees, 
Arrest  the  wing  of  each  ruder  breeze. 

A  trickling  stream  as  it  winds  below, 
Has  a  music  of  peace  in  its  quiet  flow, 
And  the  buds  that  are  ever  in  bloom  above, 
Tell  of  some  ministering  spirit's  love. 

It  is  sweet  to  think,  that  when  life  is  o'er, 
And  life's  fever'd  pulses  shall  fret  no  more, 
There  still  shall  be  one,  with  a  fond  regret, 
Who  will  not  forsake,  and  who  cannot  forget : 

One  kindlier  heart,  all  untainted  by  earth, 
That  has  kept  the  fresh  bloom  from  its  bud  and  its  birth, 
Whose  tears  for  the  sorrows  of  youth  shall  be  shed, 
And  whose  pray'r  shall  still  rise  for  the  early  dead. 


SONG    IN    MAY. 

OH,  delicately  sweet  these  spring-time  hours, 
And  in  the  bosom  of  the  gushing  air, 
15* 


174  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

The  gather'd  odors  of  the  opening  flow'rs 
"Win  the  rejoicing  sense  to  wander  there. 

E'en  winter,  soothed  unto  a  gentler  spirit, 
Foregoes,  at  last,  his  long-protracted  sway  j 

Throws  by  his  robe  of  storms,  unfit  to  wear  it, 
And  revels  in  the  genial  arms  of  May. 

A  bird-like  voice  hymns  through  the  fragrant  hours, 
The  triumph  of  the  queen  whose  sway  it  owns* 

And  the  unquiet  zephyr,  clothed  in  flow'rs, 

In  winter's  own  domain,  builds  up  her  thrones. 

O'er  the  broad  earth  there  is  no  touch  of  sadness, 
The  blue  deeps  have  their  freshness,  and  the  sky 

Is  redolent  of  many  a  spring  of  gladness, 
That  makes  it  almost  criminal  to  sigh. 

Yet,  doth  the  destiny  of  man  inherit, 

A  higher  aim  than  well  befits  his  clay  — 

A  long,  deep  doubt  hangs  o'er  the  yearning  spirit — 
Must  things  so  rich  and  lovely  pass  away  1 

They  must — yet  from  their  fate  a  moral  cherish. 

Meet  for  the  soaring  soul  and  upturn'd  eyes  ; 
From  out  the  lowly  grave  wherein  they  perish, 

Shall  spring  a  glorious  life  that  never  dies. 


AND  PICTURES.  175 

THE  STORY  OF  GOD'S  JUDGMENT. 


A  GRAND-DAM,  by  the  cottage  door, 

At  evening,  when  the  sun 
Left  hues  among  the  forest  trees 

That  gilded  every  one, 
Thus,  in  the  grandchild's  listening  ear, 

Who  gathered  at  her  knee, 
"  A  tale  of  God's  own  judgment,  child, 

Thy  mother  tells  to  thee,, 


"  A  tale  of  God's  own  judgment,  child, 

And  how  the  deed  was  known, 
And  how  they  took  the  murderer, 

And  punishment  was  done  — 
Give  ear,  and  thou  shalt  hear,  my  child, 

And  heedful  be  thy  sense, 
For  know  that  crime,  or  soon  or  late, 

Will  have  intelligence. 

HI. 

"  Will  have  intelligence,  my  child, 
And  find  a  tongue,  whose  sound, 

Like  church-bell  in  the  wilderness, 
Will  rouse  the  people  round.  — 

Would'st  hear  this  cruel  tale,  my  child  ?"•• 
The  young  boy,  at  her  knee, 


176  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Upstarted,  and  with  accent  wild, 
Cried,  —  "tell  it,  dame,  to  me." 

IV. 

The  listening  boy  had  eager  ears, 

The  dame  began  the  tale  — 
"  Just  where  the  town  of  Macon  stands 

There  ran  the  Indian  trail ;  — 
'Twas  there  the  cruel  deed  was  done, 

There  was  no  Macon  then, 
And  but  a  single  house  was  there, 

Kept  by  two  aged  men. 

v. 

"Two  old  men  in  the  wilderness, — 

They  kept  the  house  that  stood 
Upon  the  Indian  trail  that  ran 

All  winding  through  the  wood  — 
And  there  the  traveller  stay'd  by  night, 

"Who  journey'd  o'er  the  sands, 
'Way  on,  in  Alabam',  to  look, 

Upon  the  prairie  lands. 

VI. 

"  'Way  down,  for  Alabam',  my  child, 

A- seeking  lands,  one  day, 
Three  strangers,  to  the  old  men's  house, 

Came  riding  on  their  way — 


AND    PICTURES.  177 

Two  were  rough  men,  with  grisly  beards, 

And  coarse  and  rude  of  speech,  — 
But  the  other  was  a  gentleman, 

And  far  above  their  reach. 

VII. 

"  Aye,  far  above  their  reach  was  he, 

That  gentleman  so  fair, 
With  a  sweet  smile  and  countenance, 

And  long  and  sandy  hair,  — 
He  talked  with  them,  and  freely  told 

The  business  that  he  had,  — 
And  how  there  was  a  maiden  fair. 

Whose  smiles  had  made  him  glad. 

VIII. 

"  Her  smiles  had  made  him  glad,  you  see, 

And  he  was  bent  to  find 
A  pleasant  spot  and  fruitful  lands, 

To  satisfy  her  mind  — 
And  they  were  to  be  wed  as  soon 

As,  finding  what  he  sought, 
He  should  convey  the  tidings  home, 

Of  lands  which  he  had  bought. 

IX. 

"  To  buy  the  lands  in  Alabam', 

The  richest  prairie  there, 
With  thoughtless  hand  he  opened  wide 

The  wallet  that  he  bare  — 


178  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Nor  mark'd  the  eyes,  so  full  of  sin, 
They  fixed  upon  the  book, — 

Nor,  sudden,  how  they  cast  them  down, 
Lest  he  should  see  the  look. 

x. 

"  He  did  not  see  the  look,  alas  ! 

Else  he  were  much  to  blame, 
To  go  a-travelling  on  with  them, 

When  the  next  morning  came. 
And  on  they  started  by  the  dawn, — 

The  twain  were  first  abroad, — 
But  soon  the  youthful  gentleman 

Came  riding  down  the  road. 

XI. 

"  And  riding  down  the  road  so  wild, 

You  would  have  thought  the  three, 
So  frank  was  that  young  gentleman, 

W^ere  all  one  company. 
And  pleasantly  enough  they  went, 

'Till  towards  noon  they  came 
To  an  old  Indian  settlement  — 

Chilicte  was  its  name. 

XII. 

"  Chilicte  was  its  name,  my  child, 

But  all  deserted  then — 
'Twas  by  the  burial  place  alone, 

You  knew  the  homes  of  men. 


AND    PICTURES.  179 

The  woods  grew  thick  about  the  spot, 

And  rough  the  hills  around,  * 
And  silence  had  her  dwelling  where 

The  owl  alone  was  found. 

XIII. 

"  The  owl  alone  had  dwelling  there, 

And  when  the  night  came  down, 
He  hooted  through  the  misty  air, 

And  claim'd  it  for  his  own  — 
And  through  that  forest  came  the  three, — 

The  path  grew  hard  to  find, 
And  while  the  youth  rode  on  with  one, 

The  other  dropp'd  behind. 

XIV. 

"  He  dropp'd  behind  with  cruel  thought, 

And  while  his  comrade  spoke, 
With  heavy  arm  and  loaded  whip, 

He  struck  a  sudden  stroke  — 
And  down  the  light-haired  stranger  fell, 

As  quickly  and  as  low 
As  heavy  ox,  that  swims  and  reels 

Beneath  the  butcher's  blow. 

xv. 

"  It  was  a  butcher's  blow  he  gave, 

And  wild  the  stranger  cried, 
To  spare  his  life,  and  let  him  live 

For  her  who  was  his  bride. 


180  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

But  they  had  not  a  thought  for  her, 

And  spoke  an  idle  jest — 
Then  knelt,  and  stuck  the  fatal  knife 

Twice,  deep  into  his  breast. 

XVI. 

"  Twice,  deeply  did  they  stick  the  knife, 

And  no  more  prayer  had  he  : 
One  blow  had  been  enough  for  life — 

He  perished  instantly. 
And  from  his  breast  they  took  the  spoil. — 

The  money  which  had  bought 
Their  souls  for  that  old  serpent,  child, 

That  all  this  mischief  wrought. 

XVII. 

"  The  mischief  all  was  wrought,  and  vain 

To  wish  it  now  undone  ;  — 
They  took  the  body  up,  and  hid 

The  secret  from  the  sun. 
And  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills, 

In  that  old  Indian  town, 
They  stript  the  dead  man  silently, 

And  dropped  the  body  down. 

XVIII. 

"  They  dropped  him  down,  nor  buried  him, 

But  left  him  bleeding,  bare  ; 
Though  well  they  knew,  at  night,  the  wolf 

And  wild  cat  would  be  there.      •' '"•'*- 


AND    PICTURES.  181 

And  then,  with  fear  that  look'd  behind, 

They  rode  upon  their  way, 
And  thought  they  heard  upon  the  wind, 

A  voice  that  bade  them  stay. 

XIX. 

"  A  voice  that  bade  them  stay,  they  heard, 

And  then  a  laugh  and  scream, 
And  such  they  heard  in  after  years, 

In  many  a  midnight  dream  — 
But  on  they  rode,  nor  linger'd  then, 

And,  day  by  day,  they  went, 
'Till,  like  the  wealth  of  drinking  men, 

The  money  all  was  spent. 

xx. 

"  The  money  all  was  spent,  and  so  — 

(Now  years  had  past)  —  they  thought, 
To  part  awhile,  and  each  pursue 

The  scheme  his  fancy  taught ; 
And  one  went  down  to  New  Orleans, 

The  other,  hardier  yet, 
Took  the  same  road  on  which,  before, 

The  murder'd  youth  he  met. 

XXI. 

"  The  murder'd  youth,  on  that  same  road, 

He  met,  long  years  before, 
And,  with  a  sinner's  hardihood, 
The  spot  he  travelled  o'er  — 
16 


182  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

'Till  as  the  evening  shadows  fell,  t 
In  glimpses,  through  the  trees,  j 

The  reedy-rimmed  Ockmulge 
By  Macon  town,  he  sees. 

XXII. 

"  By  Macon  town  — '  what  change  is  here  ! 

The  place  is  not  the  same.' 
He  looks,  —  a  city  rises  there, 

He  does  not  know  its  name. 
The  old  fort  is  in  ruins  too, 

He  marks  the  broken  guns, 
Some  tumbled  to  the  very  brink, 

Where  dark  Ockmulge  runs. 

XXIII. 

"  He  sees  the  dark  Ockmulge  run, 

And  now  he  draws  him  nigh, 
But  neither  boat  nor  boatman  comes, 

Although  he  shouts  full  high  — 
Yet,  while  he  looks,  a  silent  skiff 

Shoots  outward  from  the  banks, 
Where  osiers  and  the  matted  canes, 

Stand  up  in  solid  ranks. 

XXIV. 

"  From  out  their  solid  ranks,  the  skiff 
Shoots  silent  on  the  stream  — — 

The  murderer  looks, — he  shuts  his  eyes, 
And  feels  as  in  a  dream ;  — 


AND    PICTURES.  183 

For  who  should  paddle  then  that  skiff 

Upon  the  swelling  flood, 
But  the  same  youth,  that,  years  before, 
He  murder' d  down  the  road. 

XXV. 

"  The  youth  they  murder'd  down  the  road, 

The  knife  stuck  in  his  breast !  — 
Two  cruel  wounds,  and  each  a  death, 

Yet  there  he  would  not  rest. 
Wild  grew  the  murderer's  spirit  then, 

And  white  as  chalk  his  cheek  — 
And  when  the  boatman's  bark  drew  nigh, 

He  had  no  word  to  speak. 

XXVI. 

"  He  had  no  word  to  speak  to  him  — 

The  boatman  waved  his  hand ; 
And  with  no  thought,  yet  full  of  fear, 

He  came  at  his  command  — 
And  trembled  much,  tho'  much  he  strove 

His  shiv'ring  dread  to  hide  ;  — 
And  held  the  bridle  of  his  steed, 

That  swam  the  skiff  beside. 

XXVII. 

"  The  good  steed  swam  beside  the  skiff, 

And  though  he  held  the  rein, 
It  were  a  speech  too  much  to  say 

He  thought  of  him  again. 


184  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

His  thought  was  of  that  boatman  there, 

And  of  the  by-gone  time, 
When  journeying  down  that  very  road 

He  did  the  deed  of  crime. 

XXVIII. 

"  The  deed  of  crime  was  in  his  thought, 

And  all  his  limbs  were  weak  ;  — 
He  strove  in  vain  —  his  tongue  was  parch'd, 

And  no  word  could  he  speak  : 
A  cold  wind  went  through  all  his  bones, — 

His  hair  stood  up  on  end,  — 
To  slay  him  then,  had  surely  been 

The  kindness  of  a  friend. 

XXIX. 

"  The  kindness  of  a  friend  is  not 

For  him  who  slays,  like  Cain, 
The  brother,  who,  beside  him,  goes, 

Confiding,  on  the  plain  — 
And  so,  the  murderer  reached  the  shore, 

And,  with  a  desperate  speed, 
He  dash'd  the  passage-money  down, 

And  leapt  upon  his  steed. 

XXX. 

"  He  leapt  upon  his  steed  and  flew, 

Nor  looked  upon  the  way ; 
Nor  heeded  that  remember'd  voice 

That  loudly  bade  him  stay  ; 


AND    PICTURES.  185 

'  How  came  ye  o'er  the  river,  friend  ?  * 
Cried  one,  who  marked  his  flight,  — 

'  When  the  boat  was  swamp'd  in  the  heavy  fresh, 
And  the  ferryman  drown'd,  last  night  * 

XXXI. 

"  '  The  ferryman  died  last  night,  friend, 

And  the  boat  lies  high  and  dry, — 
And  well  I  know  no  steed  can  ford, 

W^hen  the  river  runs  so  high.' 
There  was  fearful  sense  in  every  word, 

And  the  murderer's  brain  grew  wild, 
For  still  he  heard,  for  evermore, 

The  cryings  of  a  child. 

XXXII. 

"  The  cryings  of  a  child  he  heard, 

And  a  voice  of  innocence  — 
Then  a  pleading  note,  and  a  prayer  of  doom, 

To  the  awful  providence. 
And,  ever  and  anon,  a  crash, 

Like  the  sov'reign  thunder,  came, — 
And  he  shut  his  eyes,  for  out  of  the  wood 

There  leapt  a  flash  of  flame. 

XXXIII. 

"  There  leapt  a  flash  of  flame,  and  so, 

"With  a  blindness  strange,  he  flew, 
And  the  goodly  steed  that  then  he  rode, 

Alone  the  pathway  knew,  — 
16* 


186  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  the  blood  grew  cold  in  his  bosom,  when 

He  reached  the  town  he  sought,  — 
And  down  he  sank  on  the  tavern  steps, 
-  And  had  no  farther  thought. 

XXXIV. 

"  He  had  no  thought,  but  in  a  swoon, 

For  a  goodly  hour  he  lay ; 
And  the  gathering  crowd  came  nigh,  and  strove 

To  drive  his  sleep  away. 
And  while  they  wondered  much,  he  woke, 

His  eye  glared  strange  with  light  — 
For  the  face  of  the  murdered  man,  again 

Peer'd  down  upon  his  sight. 

XXXV. 

"  Downward  the  eyes  of  the  murdered  man 

Peer'd  ever  as  he  lay ; 
And  with  fury  then  the  murderer  rose, 

Like  one  in  a  sudden  fray  — 
And  he  drew  from  his  bosom  a  deadly  knife, 

And,  with  no  let,  he  ran, 
And  plunged  it  deep  in  the  breast  of  him 

Who  looked  like  the  murdered  man. 

xxxvi. 
"  He  looked  like  the  murder'd  man  no  more, 

For  as,  with  the  stroke  he  fell, 
The  madness  fled  from  the  murderer's  eyes, 

And  he  knew  his  own  brother  well.  — 


AND    PICTURES.  187 

'Twas  that  same  brother,  who  with  him  slew 

The  youth,  many  long  years  gone  ; 
And  the  fearful  doom  for  that  evil  deed 

Will  now  be  quickly  done. 

XXXVII. 

"  'Twill  soon  be  done,  for  the  judge  is  there, 

And  they  read  the  doom  of  death,  — 
And  he  told  the  tale  of  his  evil  life, 

With  the  truth  of  a  dying  breath. 
They  hung  him  high  where  the  cross  roads  meet, 

Close  down  by  the  gravel  ford  ; 
And  they  left  his  farther  doom,  my  child, 

To  the  ever  blessed  Lord." 

XXXVIII, 

Upstarted  then  that  listening  boy,  — 

"  Now  tell  me,  oh,  tell  me,  dame,  — 
And  how  of  the  sweet  young  lady, 

And  what  of  her  became  ? 
Who  told  her,  then,  of  the  gentle  youth, 

And  how,  in  that  Indian  glen,  A* 

The  knife  was  stuck  in  his  bosom, 

By  the  hands  of  those  cruel  men." 

XXXIX. 

"  Out,  out,  my  child,  —  was  it  right  to  tell 

Such  a  tale  to  the  maiden  true  1  — 
They  had  no  name  for  the  murdered  man, 

And  so  she  never  knew. 


188  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  they  had  no  word  to  comfort  her, 

And  paler  her  cheek  grew,  day  by  day,  — - 
Till  the  cruel  grief,  ere  a  year  had  gone, 
Had  eaten  her  heart  away." 


THE    FOREST    GRAVE. 

DEATH  takes  not  his  abode,  alone,  where  crowds 
Gather  for  many  purposes  —  where  pride 
Erects  his  habitation,  and  the  rout 
Of  spirits,  schooled  against  austerity, 
Meet  in  licentious  revel ;  — but  even  here, 
Where  the  deer  stalk  in  safety,  and  the  wild, 
Unrifled  of  its  rich  virginity, 
Is  ruled  by  sov'reign  nature  as  at  first  — 
Here  death  has  built  his  melancholy  shrine, 
And  the  small  mound  of  turf  beneath  our  feet, 
Hath  proof  that  he  has  claim'd  his  sacrifice, 
»And,  monarch  of  all  time  and  every  place, 
Has  made  life  render  up  his  trembling  staff, 
And,  like  some  outlaw,  reckless  of  accompt, 
Hath  eased  him  of  his  burden. 

Shall  we  ask  — 

What  were  thy  fortunes,  sleeper  1  —  In  what  part, 
Native  or  foreign,  of  earth's  wilderness, 
Didst  thou  begin  thy  journey  1     Was  thy  life, 


AND    PICTURES.  189 

Honor'd  by  gifts  of  goodness  —  smear'd  by  guilt  — 
Baffled  by  fortune — hard  beset  with  foes  ; 
Or,  cast  away  in  thy  own  recklessness, 
By  profligate  waste  of  days  ? 

All  in  vain, 

This  idle  quest  —  yet  not  to  virtue  vain, 
If,  from  thy  grave,  an  upward  voice  might  ris«, 
To  give  us  answer.     Nothing  may  we  know 
From  thy  sealed  lips  and  silent  dwelling  place  !  — 
My  own  blood  may  have  circled  in  thy  heart, 
Yet  know  I  nought  of  thee,  and  cannot  know. 

Yet  may  the  general  aspect  of  thy  lot 

Be  traced  in  this  thy  sepulchre  !      Thy  thought, 

Was  one  that  kept  thee  sleepless.     Thou  hast  hoped, 

With  an  unyielding,  vexing  discontent, 

For  wealthier  honors  ;  those  delusive  gauds, 

That  dazzle  the  best  eyes,  and  still  defeat 

The  wisest  aims  of  greatness  !  —  or  hast  sinned, 

Beyond  forgiveness  of  thy  fellow.     God, 

The  prince  of  infinite  power,  if  thou  hast  prayed, 

Will  grant  what  man  denied  thee.     Thou  hast  strove 

Against  thy  neighbor's  greatness.     Thou  hast  dared 

Be  bold  against  him,  when  the  power  was  his 

To  crush  thee  with  a  finger.     Thou  hast  fled 

His  keen  pursuit  of  vengeance,  and  the  doom 

Of  exile  hath  been  writ  against  thy  name, 

Being  thy  moral  death  :  —  the  rest  is  here  ! 


190 


SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 


I  read  the  story  of  thy  folly  here  • — 

Thy  folly,  or  thy  fortunes.     Thou  hast  wronged 

Thy  fellow,  in  denying  him  thy  trust !  — 

Thy  nature  asked  for  confidence  —  its  laws 

Commanded  thy  dependance.     Thou  wast  bade, 

Be  humble  in  thy  aim,  and  love  thy  kind, 

Even  when  it  wronged  thee.     Hast  thou  yielded  love, 

Or  trust,  to  him  that  sought  it  1     Didst  thou  yield 

Meet  deference  to  thy  better —  to  the  wise, 

Having  the  nation's  rule  1     Or  didst  thou  shake 

Thy  bold  hand  in  defiance,  and  depart, 

Calling  down  vengeance  in  red  bolts  from  heaven, 

To  do  thee  justice  in  consuming  flame  ? 

Would  thou  couldst  answer  !     It  may  be,  thy  tale 

Were  of  the  world's  injustice  —  the  worse  wrong, 

That  of  the  many  striving,  'gainst  the  one. 

Thou  couldst  unfold  a  grievance  which  should  bring 

A  pang  to  hearts  of  honor —  a  cold  sweat 

On  brows,  that  feel  thy  argument  was  theirs  — 

Thy  cause,  the  cause  of  freedom.     He  who  stands, 

As  I,  above  thy  forest-sheltered  sleep, 

May  read  a  story  in  thy  dwelling-place. 

Thy  steps  were  from  thy  home  of  many  hours, 

From  time  of  youth's  first  blossoming.     Thy  grief — 

The  grief  which  stretched  thee  on  the  bed  of  death — 

Came  with  thy  exile.      Thou  wast  banished  all, 

And  death,  that  met  thee,  was  a  comforter, 

To  guide  thee  to  a  dwelling,  and  prepare 

A  couch,  and  give  thee  shelter  from  the  night, 

Fast  coming  on  ;  and  storm  that  followed  close, 


AND    PICTURES.  191 

Pursuing  thee,  as  still  the  storm  pursues 

The  banished  and  unfriended.     Thou  hast  sunk 

To  thy  last  sleep,  untroubled  by  the  cares 

That  throng  about  the  city  bed  of  death  — 

No  idle  tramp  of  men  has  followed  thee ; 

A  hurried  hand —  perchance,  a  thoughtless  heart — 

Hath  scooped  thee  out  a  grave  some  three  feet  deep, 

And  left  thee  in  the  solitude  to  God  ! 

The  heart  hath  better  hopes.     Humanity 

Springs  up  beside  the  pathway,  like  a  flower, 

That  takes  the  wasteness  from  the  wilderness, 

And  sweetens  its  bleak  waters.     I  have  hope 

Thou  wert  not  all  untended  at  the  last. 

Some  hand  hath  smoothed  thy  pillow,  when  disease 

Kept  thee  awake  through  the  long,  dreary  night. 

Thy  birth  had  friends  and  parents.     Childhood  came, 

And  brought  with  it  a  livelier  fellowship, 

And  boyhood  gave  thee  sympathy  and  sport. 

And  were  there  none  of  all  thy  fellowships  — 

Was  there  no  parent  in  thy  last  sad  hour, 

Nor  she  thou  lov'dst  in  childhood  —  nor  the  boy, 

"Who  mated  out  with  thee  in  roguish  play, 

The  measure  of  thy  laughing  pranks  erewhile, 

Beside  thee,  when  thou  groan'dst  in  agony  ? 

And  in  the  trying  moment,  when  earth  reel'd 

Around  thee,  and  the  skies  began  to  fade, 

And  darkness  fill'd  thy  chamber,  and  gaunt  death 

Dragged  thee  about  and  wrestled  with  thy  frame, 

Already  overborne  —  and  hurl'd  thee  down 


192  SOUTHERN  PASSAGES 

Never  to  rise; — was  it  a  friend  long  tried 

Who  decently  composed  thy  stiffened  limbs, 

And  spread  thy  pall  above  thee ;  or  strange  men, 

Whom  thou  hadst  never  seen,  and  couldst  not  see, 

To  whom  thy  fortune,  most  unnatural, 

Grave  up  this  mournful  office  ?     Did  they  take 

Thy  frame,  and  scooping  out  a  shallow  bed, 

That  gave  thee  scarce  a  shelter  from  the  rain, 

Consign  thee,  with  a  word,  unto  thy  tomb — 

With  vague  conjecture,  scanning  all  the  while 

Thy  hopes,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  loneliness  1 

Had  all  deserted  thee  that  loved  before  1 

Or  was  't  that  thou,  in  wilfulness  of  mood, 

Self-banish'd,  fled  the  many  who  had  loved, 

Deplore  thy  error  still,  and  weep  thy  loss  ? 

Did  none  come  near  to  give  thee  medicine, 

Or  smooth  thy  pillow  down,  support  thy  head, 

Watch  by  thy  midnight  couch,  and  still  attend, 

With  an  officious  tenderness  and  zeal, 

Which  makes  the  patient  smile  through  every  pang, 

And  bless  the  malady,  however  deep, 

That  brings  along  with  it  such  pleasant  cares  1 

And  all  that  infancy  and  boyhood  brought — 
Mother  and  mistress  —  schoolmate,  brother,  friend — 
Thy  manhood  took  from  thee,  even  in  the  hour, 
When  most  their  cares  had  help'd  thee !     Such  was  not 
Thy  feeling,  when  in  manhood's  health  and  strength, 
Thou  fled'st  from  the  great  city,  with  a  pride, 
That  made  thy  errors  look  like  nobleness, 


AND    PICTURES.  193 

And  kept  thee  in  them.     In  that  hour  of  death, 
Feeble  and  prostrate,  what  a  mockery  seem'd 
That  spirit-exulting  which  had  led  thee  forth, 
Into  self-written  exile.     Thy  faint  heart 
Pray'd  then  for  that  humility  —  that  hope  — 
Thou  didst  reject  in  thy  vain  hour  of  strength; 
And  thou  hadst  given  the  torturing  pride  of  years, 
That  fed  upon  thy  heart,  and  all  its  hopes, 
For  one  pOQr  hour  of  love  —  for  those  sweet  smiles, 
Of  her,  whose  heart  looked  out  from  tearful  eyes, 
Still  hoping  for  thy  soon  return, "yet  sad, 
As  with  a  mournful  presage  of  thy  fate. 

That  fate,  perchance,  she  shared.     She  fled  with  thee, 

Blind  to  thy  errors,  to  thy  vices  blind, 

Flying  from  all  beside,  and  glad  to  own, 

A  dwelling  in  thy  heart  —  a  lone  abode, 

Where  thou  couldst  love  her.    Thou  didst  build  her  cot, 

Beside  yon  thicket,  near  yon  rippling  brook, 

And  reared  the  jasmine  round  her  cottage  door, 

And  trained  the  wild  vine  o'er  it.     Thou  wast  blest, 

Deep  in  the  forest,  happy  in  the  all, 

Rich  in  the  little  spoil  thou  robb'st  from  man. 

And  where  is  she  ?     Thy  dwelling-place  is  lone, 
The  cot  in  ruins,  and  the  tangled  vine, 
A  thicket  where  the  yellow  serpent  glides, 
And  the  green  lizard  creeps.     Where  is  the  bud, 
That  made  thy  cottage  beautiful  —  that  soothed 
The  desert  to  thine  eye,  and  fill'd  thy  heart 
17 


194  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

With  such  abundance  of  her  treasured  sweet, 
That  man's  hate  grew  forgotten  in  her  love  ? 

She  did  not  perish  when  she  saw  thee  die, 

Else  had  they  made  her  grave  where  thou  art  laid, 

And  that  were  merciful.     No  flower  is  here 

Which  she  has  planted  ;  and  the  weeds  have  grown, 

"[Intended,  like  thy  fortunes,  thorny  and  wild, 

Meet  emblem  of  thy  fate.     Methinks, 

If  there  was  nothing  sweet  to  bless  thy  days,  — 

If  youth  had  no  enjoyment  —  childhood  no  friend  — 

Manhood  no  home  —  the  love  of  country  nought, 

To  make  a  venerated  shrine  a  charm, 

More  sweet  to  age  tjian  all  the  joys  of  youth  — 

If  but  affliction  clung  to  thee  through  all  — 

It  had  not  been  a  misplaced  charity, 

Of  her,  or  the  sad  seasons,  to  have  left 

One  flower  above  thy  grave,  poor  desolate  ! 


"LOVE    IN    IDLENESS." 

A  DARK-EYED  flower  with  leaflets  pale, 
I  found  it  in  a  shady  vale, 
Afar  from  vulgar  gaze  it  grew, 
And  I,  alone,  the  pathway  knew. 

A  quiet  sky  its  shelter  made, 

And  gadding  vines  its  home  arrayed ; 


AND    PICTURES.  195 

And  near  its  realm  of  bower  and  tree, 
Were  mansions  of  the  bird  and  bee. 

These,  when  the  summer  sun  was  bright, 
Had  lays  of  love,  and  plumes  of  light  — 
And  songs  were  ever  in  the  vale, 
And  sweetness  on  the  swelling  gale. 

Yet  not  for  love  of  these  I  sought, 
The  sacred  and  the  shelter'd  spot — 
I  heard  no  song  of  bird  or  bee, 
Unless  that  flow'ret  heard  with  me. 

From  worldly  toils  and  worldly  view, 
To  seek  ks  home  my  feet  withdrew ; 
And,  day  by  day,  a  wanderer  still, 
I  swam  the  stream  and  crossed  the  hill. 

It  was  a  worship  led  me  there, 

For  love  is  still  a  thing  of  prayer  — 

And  thoughts  of  truth,  and  hopes  of  heaven, 

Are  to  its  humblest  fancies  given. 

And,  in  my  soul,  that  dark  eyed  flower 
Possess'd  a  spell  of  wondrous  power, 
Nor,  had  I  pluck'd  it  from  its  rest, 
Unless  to  shrine  it  in  my  breast. 

Nor  had  I  placed  it  there  to  gain 
A  simple  healing  for  my  pain, 


196  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

.     Unless,  with  purpose,  fond  as  true. 
To  make  it  whole  and  happy  too. 

And  still  I  came,  but  dared  not  speak ; 
My  heart  was  full,  my  tongue  was  weak  — 
I  came  to  worship  —  to  implore, 
Yet  left  her,  silent  as  before.  - 

Yet  wand'ring  far  mid  crowds  of  men, 
My  spirit  was  not  absent  then  — 
My  thought  was  in  that  vale — my  heart 
Found,  in  its  meanest  leaf,  a  part. 

And  with  that  worship,  as  I  burn'd, 
Back  to  the  flower,  my  footstep  turned  — 
Still  bright  and  beautiful  it  grew, 
As  when  at  first  it  met  my  view. 

Then  came  a  power  upon  my  soul 
That  would  not  bear  nor  brook  control  ; 
I  bent  my  knee  —  I  burst  the  thrall, 
My  tongue  was  loosed — I  told  her  all. 

And  she— heaven  bless  the  maid  ! — she  smiled, 
And  wept,  until  my  heart  grew  wild  — 
Her  hand  was  in  my  own — her  waist, 
Within  my  folding  arms  embraced — 

And  then  she  spoke,  and  I  was  blest ! 
Ah  !  wherefore  need  I  tell  the  rest — 


AND    PICTURES.  197 

That  dark-eyed  flower  is  mine,  yet  none 
Of  all  that  lovely  vale  is  gone. 

There  still  the  bird  and  bee  are  gay, 
With  gleesome  music  all  the  day, 
And  if  they  pause,  'tis  but  to  hear, 
A  sweeter  voice  upon  the  air. 


ALBERT   AND    ROSALIE. 


SHE  sat  beside  the  lattice  and  looked  forth 
Upon  the  waters.     A  smooth  stream  went  by, 
Playfully  murmuring,  and  along  its  banks 
Making  a  pleasant  music.     'Twas  the  hour, 
When,  shooting  through  the  light  wave,  his  canoe 
Bore  him  that  loved  her,  when,  in  other  days, 
Her  own  love,  deeply  hallowed  by  its  truth, 
Was  sanctified  by  hope  and  trust  in  heaven  — 
In  heaven  and  him  !     'Twas  the  hour,  and  there, 
The  waters  lay  in  light — the  silvery  light 
Of  the  sweet  moon,  that  gliding  through  the  trees, 
Pour'd  down  her  rich  smile  on  them.     A  sweet  breeze 
Came  from  the  opposite  shore,  and  would  have  borne 
The  birdlike  streamer  of  his  little  bark, 
And  made  her  sail  swell  out,  as  if  it  felt, 
17* 


198  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

And  loved,  the  love-assigned  office.    'Twas  the  hour, 

But  still  he  came  not.     A  sad  servitor 

That  ever  watched  her  heart,  and  had  a  look 

Of  frowning  sorrow,  and  was  named  despair, 

Rebuked  her  eyes  that  looked  for  him  in  vain, 

And  bade  her  hope  not.     Wherefore  looked  she  then. 

Thus  ever,  and  still  earnestly,  with  hope, 

That  seemed  but  a  sweet  sorrow  1     Who  shall  tell 

If  thought  was  in  that  fondness  1  —  if  the  mind 

Went  with  the  unconscious  eye ;  and,  in  that  glance 

Of  wild  abstraction,  if  the  expression  strong, 

Had  reason  for  its  guide  ]    It  was,  alas  ! 

But  the  sad  habit  of  her  form  that  now 

Kept  her  a  watcher.     Her  fond  eyes  looked  forth, 

Unmonitored  by  mind,  from  memory !  — 

She  saw  not  the  bright  waters  —  not  the  moon  — 

Not  the  fair  prospect!  — All  was  vacancy, 

To  that  unheeding  mourner  !     She  had  gazed 

'Till  all  grew  dark  before  her !  —She  had  thought, 

'Till  thought  had  swoll'n  to  madness  !  —  She  had  felt, 

'Till  feeling,  like  some  fever,  ate  away 

The  heart  it  fed  on. 

ii. 

'Twas  a  cruel  tale, 

Told  by  the  villagers,  of  an  early  love, 
And  hapless  indiscretion  : — such  a  tale, 
As  erring  but  fond  natures,  aptly  leave 
In  every  valley  where  warm  spirits  dwell, 
And  sunny  maidens.     Rosalie  was  young  — 


AND    PICTURES.  199 

Lovely  as  young.     A  childish  excellence, 
Infantile  grace,  with  archness  intermixed, 
Play'd  in  her  look,  and  sparkled  in  her  eye, 
Which  glowed  with  ravishing  fires,  from  a  dark  orb, 
That  had  a  depth  like  heaven  !     A  cheek,  fair 
And  delicate  as  a  rose  leaf  newly  blown ;  — 
A  brow  like  marble  — lofty  arid  profuse, 
With  the  rich  brown  of  her  o'ergathering  hair  !  — 
These  were  her  beauties — nor  in  these,  alone, 
Was  she  held  worthy  to  be  sought  of  love 
In  frequent  worship.     The  rich,  rosy  lips, 
That  played  and  parted  ever  with  a  smile, 
Becoming,  with  mixed  dignity  and  love, — 
Had  music  there  a  dweller.     Many  a  night, 
Her  wild  song,  o'er  those  waters,  silenced  them, 
And  their  rough  murmurs,  to  the  spell-bound  ears 
Of  her  enamored  hearers.     She  would  sing, 
As  if  song  were  an  element,  and  she, 
The  gay,  glad  bird,  just  fitted  to  extend 
Her  bright  wings  o'er  its  bosom  and  go  forth, — 
Bringing  rich  notes  to  earth  from  the  high  heaven, 
To  which  sweet  echoes  ever  bore  them  back  ! 
And  in  her  rustic  home,  and,  with  the  crowd 
That  came  about  her  ever,  'twas  a  sway, 
Queen-like  and  undisputed,  which  she  bore, 
And  which  they  gave  her; — nor,  in  this  abused, 
The  power  she  wielded  had  its  spells  in  love, 
And  gentleness,  and  true  thought — never  in  scorn, 
Or  any  wayward  impulse  or  caprice, 
Solicitous  to  humble  or  deny  :  — 


200  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

The  queen  of  loveliness,  she  was  no  less 
The  queen  of  modesty  and  maiden  grace, 
Unchallenged  in  each  subject's  heart,  and  there, 
Having  a  home  or  palace,  at  her  will. 

> 

in. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  many  lovers  came 
To  woo  that  maiden  1     Never  maiden  yet 
Had  sway  like  hers  in  the  secluded  vale, 
Where  stood  her  dwelling.     From  afar  and  near 
Came  the  tall  rustics  in  their  Sunday  garb 
To  see  and  seek  her.     From  the  distant  hills, 
Where  fame  and  fond  report  had  made  her  known, 
They  came  on  mixed  pretences.     Having  seen, 
Their  feet  grew  fasten'd,  and  their  amorous  hearts 
Dissolv'd  away  to  weakness,  while  they  bow'd, 
And  spoke  their  several  loves,  but  spoke  in  vain. 
Not  proud,  nor  coy,  the  maiden  yet  was  choice, 
And  sought  a  kindred  spirit  for  her  own, 
When  she  should  give  her  heart,  —  and  him  she  found- 
So  thought  she  fondly — for  the  youth  was  fair  — 
A  gentle  youth,  to  whom  a  better  sphere, 
And  an  occasional  travel  in  far  lands, 
Had  taught  the  polish  of  the  citizen, 
Subduing  the  rude  manners,  and  bestowing 
The  grace  of  social  life  —  the  symmetry 
Of  movement  and  expression,  while  it  takes 
The  sharp,  rough  edge  from  language,  and  refines, 
To  unobtrusive  sweetness,  the  discourse, 
That  soothes  the  ear  it  never  should  assail. 


AND    PICTURES.  201 

He  had  departed  from  his  native  home, 

Leaving  his  father's  hills  in  early  youth, 

When  Rosalie  —  herself  a  dweller  there  — 

Was  yet  a  child.     Returning,  she  was  then, 

A  child  no  longer.     With  the  rest  he  saw, 

And  with  a  better  fortune  than  the  rest 

He  sought  her  out  and  wooed  her.     'Tis  a  tale  — 

A  chronicle  of  sorrow,  not  of  shame, 

Sacred  in  memory,  in  the  heart  secure, 

And  sweetly  dear,  though  sad  ! 

IV. 

We  linger  now,  — 

We  would  not  hasten  in  our  narrative, 
To  its  sad  close.     But,  on  their  early  loves,  — 
The  hours  when  they  were  happy,  with  no  thought, 
To  promise  the  thick  sorrow  that  o'ercame, 
And  tore  their  hearts  asunder— let  us  pause. 
She  loved  but  him  of  all  the  valley  round, 
She  saw  but  him  of  all  the  suitors  there, 
She  heard  but  his  discourse,  knew  but  his  form , 
And  had  no  thought,  no  feeling  for  the  rest ! 
The  sunset  hour  still  brought  him  o'er  the  lake,  — 
The  sunset  hour  still  found  her  watching  there, 
Where  now  we  see  her.     From  the  opposite  shore, 
Her  eye  could  note  his  little,  light  canoe, 
When  first  emerging  from  the  reedy  banks, 
It  broke  the  quiet  waters  into  smiles. 
She  saw  him  trim  his  sail,  and  every  change 
Of  movement  she  discerned ;  and,  through  her  heart, 


202  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Seeing,  as  through  a  glass,  where  every  hope 

Had  lent  some  light,  and  every  love  gave  power, 

She  thought  the  very  smile  upon  his  lips 

Grew  visible  to  her.  gaze.     Thus,  day  by  day, 

For  months,  in  a  sweet  silence  of  discourse, 

They  moved  and  met  each  other  with  their  hearts, 

Having  no  other  speech.     But  the  time  came, — 

Too  soon,  perchance,  though  slow  to  youthful  hope,  — 

When  love  should  shape  his  language.     'Twas  an  hour, 

In  early  spring  —  love's  season  and  the  flower's, 

Season  of  budding  eyes,  and  blessing  hearts  !  — 

Nature  was  in  her  sweet  virginity, 

When  they  walked  forth  i'  the  garden.     Lovely  buds, 

Clustering  in  leafy  cells,  gave  promise  meet 

Of  untold  fruitage  — brightly  the  sun  shone, 

Yet  inoppressive,  for  his  slanting  rays, 

Came  broken  thro'  the  forest.     All  around, 

Young  flower  and  humming  insect,  bird  and  breeze, 

Partaking  of  youth's  happiest  harmonies, 

Murmured  in  gladness  to  the  delicate  sense, 

That  glowed  in  its  fresh  feelings.     Rosalie, 

Hung  on  her  lover's  arm,  yet  undeclared, 

His  passion  for  her.     The  young  maiden's  heart, 

Gushed  with  its  sweet  o'erfulness,  while  the  tear 

Of  an  unstudied  joy  upon  her  cheek, 

Trembled  in  light,  and  then  exhaled  away 

In  odor, — till  he  grew  a  worshipper, 

And  had  no  words,  save  in  his  eloquent  eyes, 

Which  spoke  that  language  of  sublimer  love, 

Too  pure  for  common  syllables,  too  like 


AND    PICTURES.  203 

The  high  devotion  of  an  innocent  heart, 
Looking  through  gentle  fears,  and  blessing  hopes, 
As  to  its  God  !     Together  they  walked  on, 
'Till  the  groves  thicken'd,  and  the  silent  trees, 
Closed  round  them  like  a  dwelling;  with  no  eye 
To  peer  into  that  holy  home  of  love, 
Scaring  its  trembling,  tried  inhabitants  ! 
He  spoke  —  he  spoke  at  last !     He  spoke  of  love, 
And  the  breeze  echoed  him,  and  murmured  "love;" 
And  every  flower  and  leaf  had  a  sweet  name, 
Love-written,  upon  them  ;  and  a  print  of  hearts, 
United,  grew,  like  flower  and  leaf  together,  — 
And  Rosalie  and  Albert,  thence,  were  one ! 

v. 

Silent  before  so  long,  their  prison'd  souls 
Then  gushed  in  mutual  language,  and  poured  forth, 
In  homage  to  each  other,  the  fond  thoughts, 
The  dreams  by  night,  the  fancies  thro'  the  day, 
Which  had  possessed  and  purified  them  long. 
Their  thoughts  were  so  much  music,  and  they  spoke, 
In  sweetest  measures  ;  —  even  as  the  bird  just  'scaped 
From  the  close  caging  of  some  gentle  dame, 
Showing  its  freedom's  consciousness  in  song 
Not  less  than  flight.     Love  was  their  monitor  — 
Love  their  companion — love  their  pleasant  charge. 
In  Rosalie,  it  spoke  in  gentlest  sighs, 
A  broken  language,  —  in  a  start  of  song, 
Capricious,  wild,  that  suddenly  came  forth, 
Even  as  a  playful  bird  from  out  his  brake, 


204  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

As  suddenly  retiring  into  shade, 

And  trembling  at  its  own  audacity. 

She  was  a  sweet  dependant,  and  her  arm 

Hung  on  his  own  so  fondly —  and  her  head 

Drooped  with  her  joy,  like  some  dew-laden  flower 

Upon  his  bosom  ;  and  he  loved  the  more 

For  such  dependance.     Noble  and  erect, 

He  clasped  her  to  his  heart,  arid  his  eye  gleamed 

With  pride  and  pleasure  when  surveying  hers. 

His  sweet  melodious  voice,  deep,  organ-like, 

Went  to  her  heart  at  every  uttered  word, 

Making  his  love  a  power,  whose  sway,  secure, 

And  conscious  of  its  own  security, 

Forebore  to  wrong,  and  with  exaction  sweet, 

Solicited  the  boon,  as  'twere  a  boon, 

When,  in  her  heart,  the  spelling  passion  there 

Proclaimed  it  his  own  right.     He  was  a  man, 

Among  the  thousand  !  Unassuming,  he 

Might  yet  assume,  unquestioned.     Gentleness, 

And  a  strange  strength  —  a  calm,  o'erruling  strength  — 

W^ere  mixed  within  him  so,  that  neither  took 

Possession  from  the  other  —  neither  rose 

In  mastery  or  passion  ;  but  both  grew, 

Harmoniously  together.  —  In  his  strength, 

The  mighty  oak  had  likeness  —  gentleness, 

In  him  was  like  the  rosy  parasite  — 

The  flush  spring  gives  it,  wrapping  it  around, 

With  sweetest  color,  and  adorning  grace. 

His  soul,  refined  beyond  the  rustic  world, 

Had  yet  no  city  vices.     He  had  kept, 


AND    PICTURES.  205 

Its  whiteness  unprofaned,  and  he  could  lift 

His  heart  to  heaven  in  faith — his  eye  on  mai\. 

Having  no  fear  —  his  hope  to  Rosalie, 

As  to  an  object  of  abiding  love, 

Without  one  taint  of  base  or  sinful  thought. 

VI. 

True  joy,  still  born  of  heaven,  is  blessed  with  wings, 
And,  tired  of  earth,  it  plumes  them  back  again, 
And  so  we  lose  it.     A  sad  change  came  o'er 
The  fortunes  of  that  pair,  whose  loves  have  been 
Our  theme  of  story — a  sad  change  that  oft 
Comes  o'er  love's  fortunes  in  all  lands  and  homes, 
Nor  spares  the  humblest.     Rosalie  was  young 
In  fancy,  as  in  years.     Truly  she  loved, 
And  yet  not  wisely.     Had  her  heart  replied 
To  any  question  of  its  love  for  him 
To  whom  she  pledged  it,  she  had  warmly  spoke 
Of  its  devotion  —  but  her  fancy,  quick, 
Roving  and  playful,  was  not  yet  subdued 
To  that  sweet-tempered,  fond  exclusiveness, 
Which  shuts  out  every  object  from  the  thought, 
Save  of  that  one  to  whom  all  thought  is  given. 
The  early  train  of  her  admirers  gone,  — 
The  crowd  that  flattered  her  with  looks  and  words, 
That  gave  her  homage,  and  pronounced  her  praise, 
In  sweet  eulogium,  vanished,  —  she  grew  sad  :  — 
The  praises  of  her  lover  were  in  looks, 
And  constant,  sweet  devotion  —  seldom  in  words  :  — 
18 


206  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

And  sometimes,  too,  he  spoke  her  chidingly, 

Though  still  in  truest  love.     He  spoke  to  her 

As  one  who  lived  forever  in  his  thought, 

A  part  of  him  And  it  —  the  dearest  part, — 

But  yet  he  spoke  her  truly ;  —  with  no  burst 

Of  fraudulent  praise  that  runs  away  with  truth, 

And  gives  habitual  error  place  for  sway, 

In  the  deluded  bosom.     Calm, —  serene, — 

His  thoughts  were  clear  and  honest ;  and  his  words, 

Still  chosen  most  gently,  were  not  yet  disguised 

To  please  the  ear  of  tingling  vanity. 

Though  loving  him  beyond  all  other  men, 

She  would  have  had  him,  like  the  rest  that  came, 

A  flattering  wooer.     His  substantial  worth, 

She  valued  truly ;  but,  not  yet  content, 

She  deemed  it  might  be  mingled  with  those  sweets, — 

False  sweets  that  lead  to  sadness  !  —  which  were  dear 

To  youthful  fancy  and  a  thoughtless  heart ;  — 

And  in  the  wantonness  of  her  sportful  mood 

Still  craving  this  frail  incense,  she  would  turn, 

Capriciously  away,  when  most  he  sought 

Her  ear  and  presence ;  and,  in  gayest  crowds 

Lose  the  dear  hour  so  rich  in  love's  esteem, 

And  barter  truest  pleasures  and  high  worth, 

Trifling  with  feelings  which  should  be  secure, 

As  they  are  sacred,  for  the  idlest  game 

That  ever  butterfly  pursued  in  May. 


AND    PICTURES.  £07 

VII. 

Yet  did  he  not  reproach  her.     At  the  first 
He  gently  prayed  that  she  might  live  for  him, 
And  know  and  love  him  better.     Much  he  strove 
To  teach  her,  that,  thus  bound  for  life  together, 
Her  study,  like  his  own,  should  be  to  make 
Her  heart  familiar  with  its  offices  — 
Those  offices  of  sweet,  domestic  love, 
Which  cannot  dream  of  gay  society, 
And  the  insidious  flattery  of  the  crowd 
Having  no  fireside  duties.     Fondly  still, 
With  indirect  speech,  he  told  his  wishes  o'er, 
And  whispered  counsels  such  as  love  might  hear 
And  only  love  could  utter.     But  her  ear 
Turned  from  him  with  a  playful,  sad  caprice, 
And  she  would  leave  him,  or,  in  mood  more  wild, 
Reply  in  tones  impatient,  till  at  last 
The  youth  grew  into  sadness  as  he  feared, 
When  they  were  wedded,  that  her  love  might  change 
Even  into  hatred,  as  he  could  not  bring 
His  nature  to  a  level  with  the  herd, 
Whose  flatteries  so  misled  her.     He  grew  sad, 
And  yet  he  sought  her,  —  still  entreating  her, 
With  his  own  love  which  was  all  earnestness. 
For  he  had  been  an  orphan  —  few  his  friends, 
And  few  the  ties  that  bound  him.     None  of  strength 
Save  that  sweet  one  with  her.     Wonder  not,  then, 
He  sorrowed  at  her  sad  infirmity ;  — 
The  loss  of  Rosalie  was  loss  of  all ! 


208 


SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 


VIII. 

One  night  there  was  a  bridal  in  the  vale, 
A  rustic  bridal.     Mirth  and  pleasant  cheer, 
Sweet  music  and  gay  lights,  laughter  and  glee, 
Assembled  young  arid  old  —  all  that  could  make 
A  dear  occasion  dearer,  mingled  then, 
And  the  vale  rang  with  joy.     Our  lovers  came, 
And  revell'd  with  the  rest.     Never  before 
Had  Rosalie  look'd  brighter  :  Mid  the  crowd, 
She  was  beheld  of  all  the  crowd  alone — 
She  was  the  bright  star  to  which  every  eye 
Seemed  turned  as  in  devotion  —  she  the  light 
Of  every  fancy  —  the  fair  queen  who  swayed 
O'er  every  heart,  even  then,  as  in  the  time, 
When  all  were  wooers,  and  no  heart  preferred, 
Had  won  hers  to  a  singleness  of  hope 
And  bound  it  with  itself.     In  her  sweet  song, 
They  gathered  round,  and  had  old  memories 
Of  hours  when  hope  was  theirs.    They  praised  her  strains, 
And  watched  the  eloquent  pleasure  in  her  eye 
That  said  their  praise  was  sweet.     From  song  to  song 
They  led  her  with  beguiling  flatteries, 
And  when  the  dance  began,  they  crowded  round, 
Contending  for  her  hand. 

There  was  one  dance, 

Brought  from  a  foreign  land  —  a  winning  dance, 
Whose  sweet,  voluptuous  twinings  witched  the  heart, 
Into  a  sad  forgetfulness,  and  wrought 
Strange  fevers  and  wild  fancies  in  the  blood. 
'Twas  from  a  land  where  vice,  in  many  a  form, 


AND    PICTURES.  209 

Had  sapp'd  society  and  torn  away, 

The  pillars  of  religion  ; — where  the  name 

Of  wife  is  but  another  name  for  all 

Of  shame  and  prostitution  —  where  the  pride 

Of  virtue  is  unknown  —  where  character 

Is  but  a  thing  of  barter  and  stale  use, 

And  fashion  makes  a  crime  necessity. 

J'yy  I     J 
IX. 

"  You  will  not  mingle,  dearest  Rosalie, 
Among  these  dancers." 

It  was  thus  he  spoke, 
As  he  beheld  some  suitors  for  her  hand 
Crowding  around,  impatient  to  enwrap 
Her  form  in  the  impassioned,  wild  caress, 
Of  that  voluptuous  motion. 

"  And  why  not  1" 
Straight,  she  replied. 

"  Have  we  not  spoke  of  it, 
Dear  Rosalie,  already  ?     Hast  rhou  not 
Joined  with  me  in  the  thought,  that  virtuous  minds 
Must  shrink  at  contact  so  familiar, 
With  stranger  persons  ;  and  regard  th'  embrace, 
So  very  free  as  this,  as  a  sad  scorn 
Of  all  those  barriers,  idle  though  they  seem, 
Which  make  the  outworks  of  nice  chastity  1  — 
Thou  wilt  not  join  these  dancers V 

"But  I  will!"  — 

Thus,  the  capricious  damsel,  to  the  youth, 
Who  pleadingly  besought  her,  then  replied,  — 
18* 


210  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

As,  turning  from  him,  she  bestowed  her  hand 

On  one  who  seized  it  with  triumphant  joy, 

Having  the  victory — for  he  had  urged 

The  cause  of  that  fond  movement ;  and,  to  her, 

The  pledged  wife  of  another,  had  discussed 

The  question  of  that  nice  propriety, 

Which  woman  must  not  argue,  and  yet  feel ! 

"But  I  will  dance  it,  Albert,  as  I  please, 
Or  not,  if  so  it  please  me.     And  why  not  1  — 
I  am  not  yet  a  bond- worn  an  methinks, 
And  such  constraint  as  this,  would  most  beseem 
A  petty  household  tyranny,  —  the  rule 
Of  modern  Blue  Beard,  than  the  free  regard 
Of  one  who  seeks  for  sympathies,  not  slaves." 

And,  with  these  words,  she  joined  the  whirling  group, 
While  Albert  turned  away  and  left  the  hall. 

x. 

Next  morning  came  a  letter  to  the  maid, 
And  this  its  language  : 

"  Dearest  Rosalie, — 

Still  dear,  though,  from  this  moment,  I  resign 
All  claim  to  call  thee  so  exclusively  — 
I  leave  thee.     When  this  scrawl  thou  read'st,  my  feet 
Shall  be  beyond  these  mountains  —  other  climes 
Will  soon  receive  me,  and  on  distant  waves, 
The  foreign  bark  shall  bear  me,  —  still  from  thee. 
Farewell  —  farewell. 

"  Oh,  it  had  been  my  thought, 
That,  from  the  moment  thou  didst  give  thyself 


AND    PICTURES.  211 

To  my  fond  pleadings,  I  should  cease  to  be 
What  I  am  now  —  a  weary  wanderer  ! 

"  That  hope  is  gone  forever.     Thou  hast  said 
The  words  which  have  unlinked  our  mutual  hearts, 
They  being  no  longer  kindred.     Thou  hast  broken 
The  flowery  twines  of  love,  in  thoughtlessness  — 
Ah  !  may  it  be  a  sorrow  but  to  one  ! 

"  And  I  must  bear  that  sorrow.     Thou  to  me, 
Wast  all  —  art  all !     I  may  not  hope  again, 
To  find  thee  in  another — and  I  dare  not 
Seek  for  another  in  thee.     Those  cruel  words  — 
Why  didst  thou  speak  them !  —  they  have  doomed  us  both 
To  isolation  ;  —  me,  to  the  worse  doom, 
Of  hopelessness.     'Tis  nothing  now  I  live  for — 
Yet  never  heart  could  love  thee,  as  did  mine. 
And  still  I  love  thee  —  love  thee  recklessly, 
As  loving  thee  in  vain.     Henceforth  I  live, 
As  one  denied.     I  cannot  love  another — 
I  would  not  pray  such  freedom.     I  have  not 
The  elastic  temper  of  the  froward  boy, 
To  change  capricious  with  the  monthly  moon, 
Nor  share  the  blight  with  each  sweet  star  that  sets. 
My  mind  is  too  subdued — my  character, 
Too  formed  —  too  fixed.     I  must  be  resolute 
In  love  as  in  all  other  qualities,  — 
Having  no  changing  moods  —  earnest  in  all, 
Unvarying  as  the  needle,  and  as  true, 
Though  the  storms  howl  —  these  make  my  nature  now. 
Vicissitude  has  tried  me  — poverty 
Counsell'd,  and  taught  me  due  stability  — 


212  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Affliction  chastened,  —  travel,  here  and  there, 
'Mong  strangers  in  far  lands  and  realms  unknown, 
Taught  me  their  several  sorrows,  and  prepared  me 
To  better  love  the  quiet  walks  of  home. 

"  I  have  no  home.     It  had  been  in  thy  heart, 
But  thou  denied'st  it  lodgment — better  pleased 
To  make  a  tenant  there  of  idle  moods, 
Enjoyments  light  and  worthless,  when  in  mine, 
Thou  hadst  a  temple  —  pure,  inviolate, 
Sacred  to  love  —  sincere  —  sacred  to  thee  ! 

"  Would  thine  had  been  to  me  but  thus  devote, 
I  then  had  been  a  hermit.     In  its  cells, 
My  thoughts  and  feelings  had  been  saintly  forms, 
Filling  each  several  niche.     Morning  and  night, 
Had  found  me  there  a  doting  worshipper, 
And  I  had  hung  it  round  with  sweetest  store, 
The  dearest  flowers  of  love — the  purest  sweets 
That  follow  young  enjoyment  —  and  that  make, 
For  twin  hearts,  of  the  gloomy  caves  of  earth, 
A  happy  home  like  heaven. 

"  Thou  hast  decreed, 

And  all  these  dreams  are  vanished.     I  would  be 
Thy  tyrant,  Rosalie  !  —  ah,  happy  she 
Who  loves  the  godlike  tyranny  of  truth. 
Thou  wouldst  not  be  a  bond- woman  !  —  dear  to  me, 
The  sweet  bond-service  1  had  pledged  to  thee. 
Thou'dst  do  or  not,  as  so  it  pleasured  thee  — 
Ah  me  !  how  different  from  thy  thought  was  mine ! 
To  do  thee  pleasure- — ay,  at  mine  own  pain  — 
Was  sure  to  be  my  sweetest  pleasure  still ;  — 


AND    PICTURES.  213 

And  to  make  slaves  of  my  best  sympathies,  — 
Slaves  in  thy  service,  —  seemed  to  my  poor  heart, 
Their  happiest  office. 

"  We  have  differed  much  — 

Too  much  for  love  !    If  these  be  thoughts  of  mine, 
And  thou  dost  scorn  them,  having  thoughts  unlike, — 
"We  are  not  fit  for  each  other  !     We  must  part  — 
And  it  is  wisdom  !     When  I  gave  my  love, 
And  pledged  my  best  affections  unto  thee  — 
I  pledged  thee  what,  next  to  thy  sacred  love, 
I  valued  more  than  all  the  world  beside. 
Thou  hast  not  so  esteemed  my  offering  — 
Thou  hast  not  so  esteemed  my  principles, 
Nor  yet  maintained  thine  own,  as  that  we  should 
Keep  bound  with  true  respect,  and  mutual  pride  :  — 
'Tis  well  we  part. 

"Yet  think  not,  Rosalie — 
The  wayward,  sad  caprice  of  the  last  night, 
Sole  cause  of  my  resolve.     I  might  have  sighed 
And  sorrowed  o'er  that  error,  yet  forgiven ;  — 
The  sin  lies  deeper.     When  thou  show'st  another, 
That  difference  grows  betwixt  thy  heart  and  mine, 
Thou  dost  invite  a  foreign  arbitration  — 
Thou  makest  our  secret  heart  a  public  thing, 
And  to  the  prying  eye,  and  busy  tongue 
Of  peevish  envy,  and  a  tattling  scorn, 
Thou  dost  unveil  the  sacred,  vestal  fire, 
Which  the  mysterious  love  designed  for  us  — 
For  those  who  love  alone  ! 


214  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

"  If,  in  my  heart, 

Or  in  my  deed,  or  language,  I  had  done 
A  wrong  to  thee  or  thine — where  should'st  thou  seek 
Arbitrament  1  — where  carry  up  thy  cause, 
In  fond  appeal  ]  —  where  clamor  for  redress1?  — 
Where,  but  in  my  heart !  — in  our  secret  shade, 
In  sacred  moments,  when,  to  love  devote, 
We  met  in  mutual  fondness !     There,  had'st  thou  come, 
And  said,  as  late  in  public  thou  didst  say, 
'  Thou  art  my  tyrant — thou  would'st  'slave  me  quite, 
Make  me  thy  bond-woman,  and  of  sympathies 
Too  freely  given,  make  degraded  slaves  !' — 
Ah,  Rosalie  !  had'st  thou  but  thought  of  this, 
I  had  not  now — but  let  it  pass  —  no  more, — 
It  is  all  idle  now  ! 

"  Once  more,  farewell !  — 
Be  happy,  and  forget  me,  Rosalie  ;  — 
And  should'st  thou  love  another,  let  my  words 
Sink  in  thy  memory,  so  that  thou  shalt  say 
Nothing  in  rashness  —  so  that  ye  may  keep 
The  troth  between  ye  as  a  sacred  thing, 
Beyond  the  gaze  of  the  herd,  beyond  its  speech, 
Beyond  its  judgment !  —  value  it  beyond 
The  moment-pleasure  always,  till  thy  heart, 
Shall  grow  into  a  kindred  life  and  thought, 
With  him,  to  whom  thou  yield'st  it. 

"  And  1  pray,  — 

'Twill  be  no  wrong  to  him,  dear  Rosalie  — 
That,  in  thy  happier  moments,  when  with  him, 
Thou  joy'st  in  life's  most  dear  realities,  — - 


AND    PICTURES.  215 

The  pleasant  fireside,  the  cheerful  friend, 
The  gladsome  child,  and  the  indulgent  lord,  — 
Thou  wilt  bestow  me  one  sad  memory  — 
One  blessing,  and  forgive  me,  that,  in  thus 
Tearing  myself  away  from  thee  and  life, 
Perchance,  I  wound  thy  pride,  or  touch  thy  heart, 
With  unavoidable  pain.     Forgive  me  this, 
And  other  errors,  as,  this  dreary  night, 
When  all  is  sleepless  sorrow  at  my  heart, 
I  do  forgive  thee,  who  art  cause  of  all  ! 
Farewell  —  farewell."     And  thus  the  letter  clos'd, 

XI. 

She  had  no  tears  —  no  language.     From  her  lips 
There  broke  no  sound  of  sorrow,  but  her  eye, 
As  if  her  sense  yet  lacked  the  news  it  brought, 
Did  reperuse  that  fatal  messenger, 
In  doubt  and  hope.     A  little  while  she  paused, 
And  then  she  sought  her  chamber,  with  no  word 
To  those  around.     She  had  no  strength  for  speech, 
And  did  not  dare,  in  the  uncertain  mood 
Of  her  sad  spirit,  to  look  up  and  meet 
The  curious  eyes  that  watched  her.     Much  they  sought, 
By  various  questions  and  inquisitive  glance, 
To  learn  her  secret ;  —  for  the  tale  was  known  — 
How  soon  love's  errors  and  misfortunes  grow, 
The  pastime  of  the  cold  and  common  crowd !  — 
That  Albert  had  departed  from  the  vale, 
In  foreign  journey.     And  she  turned  away — 
She  sought  to  be  alone  with  her  own  heart, 
And  long  and  sad  their  secret  conference. 


216  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

Her  heart  rebuked  itself — her  mind  rebuked, 
And  all  her  feelings,  self-retributive, 
Reproached  her  with  her  error.     Long  the  strife, 
They  waged  within  her  bosom,  till  she  sank 
In  prayer,  self-humbled  —  prostrate  on  the  floor, 
In  true  contrition. 

"  In  a  heedless  hour," 

'Twas  thus  she  murmured —  "  in  a  heedless  hour, 
My  erring  spirit,  with  a  fond  caprice, 
Has  sported  with  its  happiness  too  much ;  — 
Father,  forgive  me  —  be  the  punishment, 
Forborne  in  mercy — teach  him  to  forgive, 
And,  oh,  restore  him  to  me.     In  my  grief 
I  do  not  heed  the  shame  of  such  a  prayer. 
Restore  him  —  teach  him  also  to  forgive." 

When  she  came  forth  again,  her  look  was  changed — 
Her  heart  had  been  subdued.     She  had  been  weak, 
She  was  now  strengthened;  yet  her  sorrow  grew 
From  that  same  strengthening,  for  the  scales  were  gone 
That  dimmed  her  vision,  and  the  full  extent 
Of  her  own  loss  grew  clear  and  palpable  ! 
Her  error  had  been  one  of  wantonness  — 
The  last  that  love  has  ever  yet  forgiven, 
True  love  that  worships  with  a  lofty  heart 
And  even  mood.     She  felt  that  she  had  erred, 
And  feared  that  he  —  the  man  of  all  the  world 
Whom  most  she  loved —  calm,  true,  and  resolute, 
Might  prove  inflexible.     No  trifler  he, 
Capricious  with  fine  feelings,  and  fond  ties, — 
But  stern,  unbending  in  his  principles  ! 


AtiD    PICTURES.  217 

His  rigid  purpose,  noble  and  severe, 
Tenacious  pride,  and  changeless  character, 
Had  been  her  boast,  and  best  security ! 
It  was  her  joy  that  no  caprice  of  mood, 
No  passing  influence  of  the  idle  time, 
No  popular  show,  no  clamor  from  the  crowd, 
Could  move  him,  erring,  from  the  path  of  right, 
Love's  path  and  hers,  —  those  sacred  principles, 
Which  make  all  happiness,  or  it  is  nought ! 
How  could  she  hope  a  change  in  such  a  man, 
How  love  him  still,  if  so  that  he  could  change, 
Even  to  pity  her  ]     Her  thought  approved, 
Though  her  heart  grieved,  his  rigor  and  resolve. 

XII. 

"  Ah,  sweet,"  cried  he,*  who,  of  a  thousand  sweets, 
Has  sung  most  sweetly  —  "  sweet,  when  winter  frowns 
And  folds  his  ice-chain  round  us  —  sweet  to  dream 
Of  spring's  enamoring  charms,  and  gentle  reign  ! 
The  hopeless  heart  thus  cherishes  the  form 
Of  that  which  was  a  hope ;  even  as  we  seal 
The  ashes  of  the  loved  one  in  an  urn, 
We  keep  beside  us,  'till  we  half  forget 
That  it  is  ashes.     Memory  thus  endows, 
Even  as  a  god,  the  insensate  clay  with  life, 
And  hallows  to  the  robbed  one,  in  a  dream, 
The  old  sweet  faith,  the  perished  love,  and  all, 
That  made  earth  worthy  to  its  worshipper  ! 

*  Rousseau. 
19 


218  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

But  if  hope  come  not,  in  alliance  close 

With  that  creative  genius,  'till  we  think 

The  past  may  be  the  future  —  if  it  be 

That  memory  comes  alone  !  —  no  guardian  she, 

But  a  stern  tyrant,  taught  in  cruel  arts, 

And  sleepless  as  the  agony  of  guilt." 

It  was  a  sweet  hope,  counselled  her  to  hope 

Against  conviction. 

"  He  will  come  again, — 
'Tis  but  awhile — he  cannot  long  forbear  — 
He  must  forgive  me,  as,  so  help  me  heaven, 
I  had  forgiven  him  even  sterner  wrongs, 
And  crueller  words,  than  these." 

He  did  not  come  — 

That  night,  the  next,  the  next  —  and  weeks  went  by, 
'Till  hope  grew  sad  and  sickened  in  her  heart, 
And  on  her  face  a  visible  hand  was  laid, 
As  of  a  burning  sorrow — sleepless  and  stern, — 
That  would  not  be  appeased. 

And  soon  her  friends 

Beheld  the  change  upon  her,  and  they  spoke, 
Harshly  of  Albert :  then  she  chided  them, 
Most  sadly  into  silence,  and  forbade 
That  they  should  speak  again  upon  her  griefs  ; 
Still  was  she  not  ungrateful  for  the  care 
That  sought  to  comfort ;   and,  as  day  by  day, 
Her  face  grew  paler  and  her  step  more  slow, 
Her  heart  became  more  gentle  than  its  wont, 
And  with  a  meekness,  dovelike  and  from  heaven, 
She  won  a  fresher  love  from  all  that  knew. 


AND    PICTURES.  219 

XIII. 

And  what  of  him  —  so  sudden  and  so  stern, 

So  quick  of  apprehension,  so  resolved, 

So  little  merciful  to  his  own  heart, 

So  stern  a  judge  of  hers  —  what  now  of  him  1 

What  art  may  paint  his  feelings  to  the  sense, 

What  eye  perceive  them,  as,  that  fatal  night, 

He  fled  the  insensate  revel !     He  felt  crushed, 

And  the  devoted  feelings  of  his  heart, 

So  long  her  homagers,  now  all  recalled, 

Came  home  rebellious  from  that  sweeter  realm, 

Where  they  had  spent  the  hours  so  joyously. 

They  came  to  torture,  and  he  fled  with  them, 

Even  as  a  fugitive  —  he  fled  from  them, 

Or  strove  to  fly,  but  they  pursued  him  close, 

And  tore  him  as  he  fled  !     In  foreign  lands, 

He  made  himself  a  home  —  if  that  may  be 

A  home,  which  is  a  prison  house  and  scourge  ! 

He  made  himself  new  comrades,  day  by  day, 

And  fled  from  each  in  turn.     He  still  went  on, 

And  sought  new  dwellings,  only  to  behold 

Smiles  change  to   frowns  —  seeking  new   friends  and 

flowers 

To  find  the  one  grow  cold— the  other  die. 
The  curse  of  hopelessness,  and  a  premature  blight, 
Clung  to  him  in  his  journey,  and  the  doom 
Of  desolation  was  unchanged  to  him  !  — 
In  crowds,  in  camps,  in  cities  and  in  fields, 
Where'er  he  fled,  whatever  home  he  sought, 
'Twas  written  still,  and  Albert  was  alone. 


220  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

XIV. 

A  bloody  war  waged  in  a  neighbor  land, 
And  the  perpetual  strife  in  his  own  mood, 
There  led  him,  as  if  seeking  sympathy 
In  toil  and  danger.     In  the  ranks  of  war 
He  soon  became  a  leader.     Fierce  his  ire, 
Hot  his  pursuit,  impetuous  in  assault, 
Desperate  in  daring,  and  in  perilous  strife, 
Fatal  his  muscular  arm.     His  men  grew  fond, 
And  joyed  in  such  a  leader.     Rash,  not  bold, 
He  hourly  sought  new  dangers.     Numbers  stood 
Between  him  and  his  aim.     He  counted  not 
The  deep  array,  but  striking  right  and  left, 
He  plunged  where  foes  were  thickest.     Walls  arose, 
High,  steep,  and  massive  —  ranging  cannon  poured 
The  rattling  shot,  like  hail,  upon  his  path, — 
But  did  not  stop  him.     Soon  the  walls  were  gainedj 
The  banner  of  the  foe  beneath  his  foot, 
His  voice  in  victory  shouting. 

Where  was  death] 

The  foe  he  struck  could  answer,  but  the  chief, 
Who  sought  for  the  grim  enemy  in  vain, 
Went  through  the  strife  unharmed.     The  vain  sword 
Swept  by  him  edgeless  —  the  directed  ball, 
Fatal,  if  sent  against  another  breast, 
Swerved  harmlessly  from  his  —  his  doom  was  still, 
To  live,  though  thousands  perished  —  but  alone  ! 
And  she  !  —  the  news  was  brought  her  that  he  fought, 
The  battles  of  the  Texians.     That  he  stood 
Upon  the  Alamo's  walls,  when  the  fierce  tribes 
Of  Mexico,  in  numbers  overspread 


AND    PICTURES.  221 

And  crowded  down  the  defenders  —  it  was  said, 

That,  striking  to  the  last,  each  stroke  a  death, 

The  gallant  chief  was  slain  by  many  hands, 

O'erpower'd,  not  conquered  ;  — and  the  tale  was  told 

By  one  most  thoughtless,  in  a  sudden  tone, 

That  went  even  like  an  ice-bolt  to  her  heart, 

And  froze  its  hope  forever.     From  that  hour, 

The  last  sad  change,  foretelling  all  the  rest, 

Came  o'er  the  maiden.     Much  they  strove  to  cheer, 

Or  chide  her  prisoner-mood,  but  all  in  vain  — 

They  led  her  to  the  revel,  with  fond  hope, 

By  change  to  cheer  her ;  but  she  sicken'd  there  !  — 

The  idle  song  of  love,  which  fill'd  her  ears, 

Was  then  a  sadness  !     It  reminded  her 

Of  those  she  once  had  sung,  when  he  was  by 

A  listener  in  the  moonlight.     From  the  dance 

She  shrank  away  in  horror  !  —  What  a  throng 

Of  images  most  fearful  came  with  it ! 

New  suitors  sought  her,  but  they  left  her  soon, 

As  hopeless  as  herself!     Nothing  could  change 

The  spirit  of  that  mourner — nothing  move 

Her  sorrow  from  its  deep  devotedness  !  — 

Life's  harmonies  had  gone  —  its  strings  that  once, 

Beneath  hope's  finger,  did  discourse  so  long, 

And  such  sweet  music,  gave  but  discord  forth, — 

Despair,  not  hope,  the  stern  musician  now ! 

xv. 

A  little  longer,  and  our  strain  is  done  — 
The  story  of  love's  sorrow  is  soon  told, 
19* 


222  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

A  word  will  tell  it  always.     Rosalie,  — 
'Twas  but  a  few  days  when  we  saw  her  last, 
There,  sitting  by  her  lattice,  looking  forth 
Upon  these  waters.     See  the  lattice  now  ;  — 
How  vacant,  and  how  cheerless  it  appears. 
We  seek  her  elsewhere.     But  a  week  ago, 
She  sat,  where  last  we  saw  her.     It  was  night, 
A  soft  and  mellow  evening,  calm  and  clear — 
A  thousand  beautiful  forms  were  in  the  sky, 
Light  forms  of  fleece,  that  hung  around  the  moon, 
Like  robes  of  regal  splendor — a  sweet  breath 
Of  perfume  filled  the  air,  and  pleasant  sounds, 
Of  winds  and  waters  meeting,  rose  aloft, 
In  harmony  to  the  spirit. 

"  The  guitar"  — 

Feebly,  to  one  who  tended  her,  she  spoke, 
"  Bring  it,  I  pray  thee  :"  — 

And  the  damsel  brought 

The  well  known  instrument,  so  cherished  once 
When  he  was  by,  and  yet  untouched  so  long. 
She  played  a  soft,  prelusive,  pensive  air, 
And  then  the  notes  grew  wanton.     Fitfully, 
Shadows  of  ancient  melodies  arose, 
And  vanished  from  the  strings  ;  until  her  hand, 
Seemed  resting  only  on  the  instrument, 
Which  sounded  with  the  beatings  of  her  pulse, 
Unprompted  by  her  will ;  —  but,  suddenly, 
Her  mood  grew  firm,  and,  most  commandingly, 
A  bold  and  ranging  melody  she  framed, 
With  nicest  variations  ;  and,  awhile, 
The  strain  was  like  the  first  flight  of  a  bird, 


AND    PICTURES. 


223 


Waking  at  morning  with  rejoicing  wing, 

And  soaring,  soaring  upward,  e'en  to  heav'n. 

Then,  as  the  high  tones  of  the  instrument, 

Grew  softened  as  by  distance,  with  her  voice 

She  coupled  sweetest  thoughts,  most  gently  framed 

By  suited  language.     Mournfully  she  sang 

A  ditty  of  the  saddest  circumstance, 

Of  fortune  long  denied,  and  tenderest  love, 

That  should  have  been,  like  some  well  treasured  flower, 

Worn  in  the  genial  bosom,  left  to  pale 

Its  leaves  in  hopeless  blight ;  and,  at  the  close, 

Fondly  and  gently,  thus  she  spoke  of  him  ! 

"  Yet,  will  I  not  reproach  thee,  though  thou  hast 
Dealt  most  unkindly,  Albert.     'Twas  a  fault, 
A  most  unmaidenly  fault — that  word  of  mine, 
Yet  might  have  been  forgiven — -  should  have  been 
Chidden,  and  then  forgotten.     'Twas  a  child, 
That   spoke   with  little   thought — thou  should'st  have 

known 
My  heart  was  with  thee. 

"  But,  'tis  over  now ;  — 
Thou  wilt  forgive  me  when  I  am  no  more, 
And,  as  thy  nature  is  all  gentleness, 
Even  when  thy  word  is  sternest,  well  I  know 
Thou  wilt  reproach  thyself,  that  thou  hast  been 
So  rigid  with  me." 

A  faint  cry  below, 

Broke  in  upon  her  speech  —  a  cry  of  wo  — 
And,  in  another  moment,  through  the  leaves, 
Came  darting  a  strange  form — yet  not  so  strange, 


224  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES 

When  the  next  glance  surveyed  him.     It  was  he — 
'Twas  Albert  —  and  he  came  all  penitent, 
And  sorrowing  for  his  sternness.     In  his  arms, 
She  sank  most  fondly,  and  yet  speechlessly. 

"  Forgive  me,  dearest  Rosalie — I  come  — 
Too  long  forgetful  of  thy  worth  and  claims, 
I  come  to  thee  at  last  —  forgive  me  all  — 
I  was  too  rash  —  too  cruel,  —  thou  hast  been 
The  sufferer  at  my  hands,  and  I  have  wronged  thee 
Beyond  atonement,  —  yet,  I  pray  thee  smile  : 
Look  up  and  say — look  up,  my  well  beloved, 
And  bless  me  with  thy  smile  —  and,  with  thy  words, 
Say  thou  forgivest  me." 

The  dim  eyes  unclosed, 

The  bosom  heaved  in  sighs —  a  bright  smile  spread, 
From  the  sweet  lips,  and  from  the  kindling  eye, 
Over  her  pallid  face,  and  then  it  passed, 
Even  like  some  soft  and  rosy  cloud  at  eve, 
Suddenly,  from  the  sight. 

"  I  am  forgiven  !  — 

That  eye  has  said  it  —  from  those  lips  it  came, 
Even  though  they  spoke  not, — and  this  heaving  breast, 
Sent  me  its  pardon  in  that  gentle  sigh. 
Yet,  speak  to  me,  beloved,  —  speak  to  me  !  — 
What  means  this  silence  ] — speak  to  me — but  once  ! 
Come  hither,  girl !  —  some  water,  quickly  bring  — 
Or  she  will  die  in  my  arms  !  —  God !  —  she  is  dead, 
And  I  have  slain  her !" 

Truly,  had  he  said  ; 
The  parted  breath  that  would  have  spoke  in  mercy, 


AND    PICTURES.  225 

Had  made  its  way  to  Heaven.     He  was  alone  — 
The  destiny  of  Albert  was  not  done  — 
And  forth  he  fled — and  still  he  fled,  alone. 


THE    WIDOW    OF    THE    CHIEF, 


'TwAS  in  the  hidden  depth  of  Indian  vales, 
A  wall  of  woods  and  waters  swelling  round, 

Where  seldom  came  the  strong  and  stormy  gales, 
Or  with  maimed  force  and  mitigated  sound, 

The  tumulus  of  many  an  age  arose, 

Where  long  forgotten  nations  found  repose. 

ii. 

The  broken  earth,  the  freshly  gathered  clay, 
Told  of  a  recent  burial,  while  above, 

Moaning  in  accents  wild,  a  woman  lay, 
With  look  that  spoke  of  a  dissever'd  love  ! 

And  singing  mournfully  a  lingering  strain, 

Of  mingling  shame  and  glory — pride  and  pain. 

in. 

'Twas  in  that  language  which  the  Indian  deems 
Sole  in  his  fabled  heaven,  that  soars  behind 


226  SOUTHERN   PASSAGES 

The  western  waters  — there,  where  swamps  and  streams 

Shall  neither  stay  the  chase,  nor  taint  the  wind  — 
Where  life  shall  be  all  morning —  where  fatigue 
Shall  never  clog  the  form,  tho'  wandering  many  a  league. 

IV. 

Its  tones  were  soft  and  delicate  —  they  stole 
Like  the  faint  murmur  on  the  Ocone*  wave, 

AVhen  first  the  morning  meets  it  —  the  warm  soul 
Of  a  strong  feeling,  mingling  with  it,  gave 

A  deep  and  melancholy  strain,  which  told 

How  all  that  love  once  lived  for  had  grown  cold. 

v. 

The  chief  she  wail'd  had  led  the  tribe  to  war, 
And  won  his  hundred  battles.     He  had  stood, 

Unvanquish'd,  bleeding  at  full  many  a  scar, 

Marking  his  path  through  the  dread  field  in  blood ; 

Nor,  though  the  bravest  at  his  side  lay  slain, 

Until  the  foe  was  vanquished  left  the  plain. 

VI. 

Yet  he  who  to  his  foe  had  never  shown 

His  back  in  battle,  in  his  highest  pride, 
By  traitor  weapons,  in  the  dark  struck  down, 

May  well  bring  lamentations  to  his  bride  — 
And  mingle  with  the  memory  of  a  chief 
So  well  beloved  and  worthy,  many  a  grief. 

*  Ocone,  or  Occonyee,  a  small  river  in  the  state  of  Georgia. 


. 

AND    PICTURES.  227 

i. 

A  deeper  sorrow  yet  —  a  sterner  fate 

Hangs  o'er  the  mourner  :  she  who  lov'd  the  brave, 
Whose  death  hath  left  her  lone  and  desolate, 

Must,  with  her  people,  fly  the  warrior's  grave  — 
Must  yield  the  mournful  solace,  to  behold, 
And  deck  the  mound  where  sleep  the  true  and  bold. 

VIII. 

And  sung  she  mournfully — "  The  invader  pale 
Shall  seize  our  homes,  and  by  the  swelling  brink 

Of  the  broad  waters,  and  on  hill  and  vale, 

Build  up  his  dwellings,  till  the  deer  shall  shrink 

Stealthily  back,  into  his  forests  deep, 

Nor  from  the  cover  of  the  thick  swamp  sleep. 

IX. 

"  And  they  will  rob  the  woods  of  all  that  make 
Them  lovely  to  the  Indian.     They  will  bring 

Forbidden  sounds  into  the  silent  brake, 

And  banish  thence  the  birds,  and  blight  the  spring, 

Nor  spare  the  warrior's  bones,  nor  leave  the  bloom 

And  beauty  to  the  flow'rs  that  hang  above  his  tomb. 

x. 

"  Yet,  'tis  not  this,"  in  wilder  mood  she  sung, 
"  Not  that  they  take  the  silence  from  the  woods, 

And  chase  the  bird  away,  and  chide  his  tongue, 
And  turn  to  other  paths  the  gentle  floods, 


22S  SOUTHERN    PASSAGES. 

Making  the  mill  course,  —  while  the  red  deer  shrink, 
And  tremble,  in  the  troubled  waves  to  drink — 


XI. 

u  But  that  the  Indian  with  the  sun  must  glide, 
No  more  a  chief  of  the  woods,  no  longer  free, 

And  leave  the  vales  and  waters,  once  his  pride, 
The  home  endeared  by  a  long  infancy, 

The  woods  he  roved  for  ages,  and  the  graves 

Where  lie  the  sacred  bones  of  all  his  braves. 

XII. 

"  In  vain  their  troubled  shades  would  seek  to  find, 
When  the  pale  white  man  shall  our  land  o'erspread, 

The  scenes  —  the  fields  —  the  homes  that  may  remind 
And  tell  them  of  the  glories  of  the  dead. 

The  tall  pine  shall  be  torn  away  from  earth, 

As  if  it  never  had  in  the  deep  valley  birth. 

XIII. 

."  A  people  will  succeed  who  shall  not  know 
The  race  they  robb'd  of  home  and  heritage  — 

And  they  shall  boast,  perchance,  when  we  are  low, 
Of  homes  descended  through  full  many  an  age 

To  them  unbroken :  —  who  shaU  ask  the  lot 

Of  the  great  nation  vanish'd  and  forgot  ?" 

. 

THE    END. 


P5H49 

^^^^F\ 


